


Who Killed Markiplier: Shot in the Dark

by EmmiBee



Category: A Date With Markiplier (Web Series), A Heist With Markiplier (Web Series), Damien (TV), Who Killed Markiplier? (Web Series)
Genre: Alternate Universes, Crossing Timelines, F/M, Fourth-Wall Breaking, Healthy Relationships, Mentions of Injury and Violence, Metafiction, Multiple Timelines, Platonic Relationships, Self-aware characters, Unhealthy Relationships, a lot of creepy stuff actually, audio embeds, guys theres just a lot, non-linear timeline, some creepy stuff, supernatural entity-style domestic abuse, video embeds, what were you expecting
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-11-02
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:09:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 44
Words: 47,206
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24417166
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EmmiBee/pseuds/EmmiBee
Summary: It's funny how time works, isn't it?We tend to see it as a linear progression, like a novel, from one page to the next.But with a novel, you can skip to the end, can't you?Nothing is stopping you from flipping forward to the next chapter, or turning back to reread that one page you missed.Time is just like that. If you have the talent, if you have the knowledge, you can do whatever you please with it.You could even edit it to your liking, if you wanted. Or, if you really wanted, you could even jump into another story and change that one too.It's not that hard, really.That's the problem.[Most chapters of this story were originally posted on tumblr, split into oneshots and chapter fractions over several years. There are audio and video posts in this story.]
Relationships: Damien | The Mayor/Y/N | The District Attorney (Who Killed Markiplier?)
Comments: 20
Kudos: 47





	1. It Wasn't a Joke

It was colder today.

She pressed her hands to the mirror. Maybe now… She exhaled, watching for the glass to fog up.

It didn’t. It maintained a clear image of the room, vacant and dusty.

Warped.

_Maybe tomorrow._

She pulled her hands from the glass, bloody prints left in their wake. She’ll clean it up soon.

If she remembered.

She left the empty mirror, stepped from the downstairs hallway and into the upstairs bedroom. She wasn’t quite sure how she knew how to do that, but appreciated the convenience.

Her fingers brushed the fine linen on the bed. It was so nice, maybe she’ll sleep in another bedroom just so it could stay nice.

Broken glass littered the ground near the window. _Oh no. What happened?_

She picked up three picture frames. Two were snapped in half, leaving only torn pictures inside them.

The other was completely shattered and covered in blood.

_That wasn’t very nice. Someone might have loved this picture._

She set the pictures up on the dresser. _I’ll clean that mess up tomorrow._

What was she looking for again…?

She blinked. Why was her vision blurry?

Oh, her glasses. One of the lenses was broken. _That’s right. I was looking for a spare pair._

Wasn’t she?

Blood dripped on the floor.

She looked down. Something was on her shirt. A stain, growing bigger. First she looked around, to make sure no-one saw her indecency, then she lifted the cloth to look.

A gunshot wound on her lower left ribs, still fresh. _Oh. I should probably get that looked at._

It didn’t really hurt, though, so she’d do it tomorrow. She dropped her shirt, hoping the stain will come out.

She rubbed her neck. Must’ve slept on it wrong.

What was she looking for again…?

She wiped her bloody hands on her trousers. _I should do laundry tonight. Damien wants everyone to look neat and tidy._

Who was Damien?

The pain in her neck sharpened. Why couldn’t she hold her head up straight?

“Damien?”

Who was Damien? Why was she looking for him?

“Colonel?”

The war was over. They won. Everything was okay now.

“Damien?”

Maybe he’s in his office.

Maybe he worked late again.

“Where are you?”

Who was she looking for, again?

She stumbled through the hallway and hit her head on a door.

Blood sputtered from her mouth. She wiped her mouth and rubbed her head.

_That’ll leave a mark…_

She coughed. More blood. Why was there so much blood?

So… much… blood…

_It’s not fair, is it?_

“Mark?”

He’s in the parlor. No, the body is gone, he’s somewhere else now…

_It’s not fair at all._

He stole his body.

He took him away.

“Damien!”

They stole it, she gave it to them…

They lied to her.

_It’s not fair._

Mark did this. He started all of it. It’s his fault.

_Damien._

The Colonel… it was an accident. He didn’t mean to.

_It’s not a joke._

It’s not fair.

_They left me here._

_They left me alone._

_They left me for dead._

Not fair at all.

The picture frame smashed to the floor. She drove her heel into it. Someone was screaming. Crying.

_Is that me?_

Blood joined the tears dripping onto the pile of glass.

_I should clean that up._

She was bleeding. Was that a gunshot wound?

_I should get that looked at._

Maybe tomorrow.

What was she looking for, again…?

It’s gotten colder.


	2. Who Killed Markiplier: For the Living

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally posted on Tumblr in multiple parts. It has been edited together to make one complete chapter.

When I told the mayor I needed a few days off, this wasn’t exactly what I had in mind.

The taxi pulls away, leaving me with only my small overnight suitcase and pooling moonlight. I stand in front of a huge manor, impressive towers and sprawling grounds laden with blue-gray shadows.

My wrist lifts automatically, my watch reassuring me that, indeed, it is ten minutes to eight, and I am a very bad guest. I step up to the porch, toward who appears to be a man in a safari outfit standing near the door. He turns, noticing me, and smiles brightly.

“Oh—bully!—and here I thought I was going to be the last guest to arrive!” says the mustached man, clearly delighted. Before I can say anything, he takes my free hand in both of his and shakes it vigorously. His eyes—what I can see of them behind the glasses and ridiculous hat— are clear and mirthful, but hold a certain brightness that’s vaguely….unsettling.

“My friends call me the Colonel,” the man is saying. “You’re welcome to do the same, should it please you, Mrs…?”

“Miss,” I correct him. “Bailey. Emma Bailey. Pleased to meet you.”

“Ah, I see, I see, you must be that friend Damien has spoken so highly of.” He nods several times, grinning knowingly.

“Oh?” I raise an eyebrow, prompting a boisterous laugh.

“Ahhh, don’t you worry about a thing. Mr. _Mayor_ is very proud of our new District Attorney.”

He raises his eyebrows significantly, and I frown slightly. What has Damien been saying about me? We haven’t spoken about anything besides work for the past two months. “That's… flattering.”

“Bully. Well, Miss Bailey, I’m sure you’re eager to see the magnificent manor; please, after you.”

He releases my hand and gestures toward the door. I smile, albeit weakly, and knock.

The door is opened by a well-dressed butler. He smiles politely and gestures me in. “Ah, bonjour,” he says, in a strange foreign— definitely not French— accent. “Welcome to Markiplier Manor. Your invitation, please.”

I fish the white envelope out of my pocket and present it to the butler, who takes both it and my suitcase. “Very good, very good. Right this way.” He leads me into the living area, where the other guests are gathering. “Your room will be at the top of the stairs. Good luck at the tables tonight.” He smiles at me again and bows slightly. “I shall fetch your drink forthwith.”

I smile politely back at him as he leaves, then turn to see Damien, my friend, speaking to a man in a deerstalker cap.

“Ah, there you are, Emma,” Damien exclaims, seeing me. His companion slinks off, eyeing me with exaggerated and almost comical suspicion. At my quizzical look, Damien explains, “Oh, that was Abe. He’s a detective, evidently, and another friend of Mark’s. He’s eccentric, but… well, Mark trusts him, so… don’t worry about him. How are you settling into your new office?”

I pause at the change in subject. “Fine. It’s…big. Bigger than any office I’ve ever worked in. But it’s nice. And, ah, so is the new nameplate.”

His eyes light up. “I wanted you to have one as soon as you moved in. It helps make things feel more…official.” At my hesitant look, he takes my hand in both of his and grips it reassuringly. “Now, I know this will take some getting used to, but there is no one I’d rather have alongside me, protecting this great city of ours.”

We share a smile, and I try to ignore the sudden warmth that comes from his words. One of the other guests–the Colonel, I think— calls his name. Damien drops my hand. “I’ll see you at the tables soon. Try not to rob me blind again,” he chuckles. “I know we haven’t really spoken outside of work in a while, but I promise tonight we’ll catch up.”

I watch him leave to greet the Colonel. I tilt my nose up in curiosity. Something smells delicious. I follow the scent into a lavish dining room, offhandedly wondering at the price of some of these decorations.

A large man in a chef’s hat and an apron is picking up a tray from the table, and I light up. I haven’t eaten since breakfast, and something to eat sounds amazing.

Before I can speak, however, he looks up and snarls. “If you’re looking for _hor'dourves_ , I’ll get ‘em when I’m good and ready!”

I’m taken aback. This is the man that Mark hired to serve him meals every day?

He turns into the kitchen, and I step forward, about to protest. He whips back around, brandishing a ladle threateningly. “And stay out of my kitchen!”

“Now, now, let’s not be rude to our guest.” The butler stands on the other side of the dining room, holding a tray of champagne glasses. The two exchange venomous looks, and I edge away from the kitchen.

The door slams behind the chef, and the butler smiles at me apologetically. “So sorry about that. Here is your champagne.”

I take the glass, a bit surprised. Ever since a scary incident back in our junior year of university, Mark hadn’t taken a sip of alcohol on threat of death. Perhaps he was just being polite to his guests? But he had never been particularly altruistic…

Damien comes to stand beside me, his own glass in his hand. His eyes hold the same questions.

“Welcome, welcome, one and all!”

The subject of our rumination descends the staircase, wrapped in a red silk dressing gown and white cavat. Good-natured greetings rise from the guests,

“My name is Markiplier.” Mark bows slightly. Damien and I raise our eyebrows at each other at the use of Mark’s stage name. “Thank you for joining me on this auspicious evening. So good to be surrounded by such close and trusted friends.” He looks at me pointedly as he says this, making me wonder what had happened during those five years of _not talking_ to make us so close.

“Now this evening is not all about the poker,” Mark continues. “It’s not all about me.” He gestures to himself. “It’s about you.” He gestures to me, and then the rest of the guests.

More cheers and nodding heads.

Mark raises his hands grandly. “So drink up and be merry! Life is for the living. Who knows…” our eyes meet and he smiles jovially. “I could be dead tomorrow.”

He laughs, and the Colonel and the man in the deerstalker cap join him.

Damien lifts his glass and smiles.

I don’t.

We drink.

~~~

Before we try our luck at the tables, we have supper. Mark’s terrifying chef prepared spaghetti with meatballs, and we all sit around the long table. Mark sits at the head of the table, the Colonel sits at his right and Damien sits at his left. I sit next to Damien, and the detective— “Abe"— sits across from me, giving me strange looks.

“Now, isn’t this nice,” Mark says, passing the butter dish.

“Yes, very extravagant,” the Colonel replies. The sarcastic lilt in his voice shocks me. I look at Mark to see his response, but his smile is as jovial as ever.

I look to Damien for an explanation, but he raises his eyebrows at me and smiles around a mouthful of food. Abe stuffs his face with garlic bread, his scrutinous glare trained on me. I give him a look, and his eyes dart away. As soon as he thinks I’m not looking, he’s staring at me again.

“Miss Bailey!” the Colonel booms. I give a start, just barely managing to keep from flinging my fork across the room. “Damien tells me you’ve just moved into your new office.”

I carefully set my fork down. “Yes, I moved the last box in today.”

“How exciting! You must be eager to get to work, eh? Why, if you’re anything like our dear Damien, you were unpacking your office until sundown and forgot that the party was tonight.”

I nearly choke on my water.

Damien and Mark are grinning at me expectantly. Abe has an eyebrow raised in curiosity. Slowly, deliberately, I set down my drink, pick up a napkin and dab my lips delicately.

I then fold my napkin and set it in my lap.

With agonizing slowness, I lean forward and look the Colonel dead in the eye, tailoring my tone to be as flat as possible. The other three wait with bated breath.

I speak. “That is absolutely correct.”

Jaws drop.

Then, everyone bursts into laughter, Mark tilting his head back, Damien covering his face with a napkin, the Colonel guffawing into his fist. Abe’s laugh is obviously fake, but it fails to bother me as much.

“Why, Mark, this bird has better comedic timing than you ever did!” the Colonel booms.

“Her timing in general is better than yours, my friend,” Mark retorts, his smile becoming much more pointed.

The focus is suddenly pulled from my quip and toward the two of them. They continue to chuckle, but their eyes are locked in a poisonous glare.

I look to Damien. This time, his smile is thin-lipped. He catches me looking and smiles more genuinely, but quickly turns his attention back to his plate.

What in the world?

After supper, Mark and the detective leave to help prepare the tables, and the Colonel goes to his room for some reason or other. I’m left alone with Damien in the parlor, staring into the fireplace introspectively.

“… What was that?” I ask. He looks at me.

“What was what?”

I raise one eyebrow. He sighs.

“Mark and the Colonel’s relationship is… complicated. It’s hard to explain.”

“They seem to have history,” I prompt.

He gives a short laugh. “I should hope so. They’re brothers.”

I pause, open my mouth, then close it again. “… _Oh_.”

“Yep.” He pops the _p_ , shifting his weight distractedly. “They grew up here together.”

“Mark never mentioned they were brothers when he talked about the Colonel.” _Neither did you,_ I think, but don’t vocalize. Damien seems to be in enough distress. I don’t need to add to it with meaningless accusations.

He seems to understand what I’m thinking, and looks away. “Yes, well… they had… conflicting interests ever since we were young. They didn’t always like to acknowledge that they were related.”

“Surely this isn’t just an old grudge,” I say. “There seems to be more to it than that.”

Damien’s lip curls subtly. “Oh, it’s certainly a grudge. Just a more recent one.”

I blink in surprise, then try to think of what could possibly be going on between them. Flashes of Mark sobbing, Damien and I imploring him to file for divorce, the long silence afterward, rumor after rumor filling the newspapers with no true facts surfacing…

I pinch my lips between my teeth. “… Was it true, then? About… Celine?”

Damien gives me a sharp look. “No.” A muscle in his neck twitches. His mouth twists. “…Maybe.” He looks down and rubs his palm over the knob of his cane. “…I don’t know. We haven't… we haven’t talked in a while.”

_Since she left Mark,_ I realize. Celine had cut out everyone, including her own brother.

He wouldn’t appreciate pity, or anything resembling it. I settle for nodding.

“NOW what’s the long faces about!”

The Colonel appears beside me and I shriek, nearly leaping into Damien’s arms.

The Colonel laughs loudly, slinging his arm around Damien’s shoulders. “Bit of a jumpy one, eh, Dames? Oh-ho-ho, don’t worry, we’re all friends tonight. It’s time for me to drag you two all over the tables!”

They laugh good-naturedly, the somberness of the moment forcibly forgotten. I bring myself to smile. This is a party, after all. Soon there will be drinks and chips and cards, and time to forget everything that worries us. It’s a time for fun and reconciliation, for old friendships rekindled and new ones forged.

Tonight will be a night to remember.

~~~

I wake up the next morning with a headache and pain in my mouth. My vest and tie are draped across a chair and my shoes are lined up neatly underneath it.

I sit up and stretch, notice my blouse is partially unbuttoned, and button it hastily. I really let loose last night, it seems… my memories of the party are fuzzy, but I do remember drinking quite a bit.

One of Mark’s dressing gowns is hung on the back of the door. I pull it on sleepily and slip on my loafers, then glance in the mirror to make sure I’m somewhat presentable. My hair is passable, but there’s something smeared on my cheek…

I snatch my glasses from the nightstand and set them on my face, squinting. Is that… lipstick?

_…I don’t wear lipstick._

I scrub it off with my handkerchief, frowning. At least it comes off… but there’s a cut on my lip.

I have a vague memory of getting into a fight with Abe, the supposed “detective” in the deerstalker cap. Fists flew, and I nailed him once or twice… did I get knocked down? Damien’s flushed, concerned expression floats in front of my face. His hand patting my cheek… he’s the one who helped me to my room.

I wipe off the last of the lipstick and dried blood on my chin. My stomach grumbles… this is good enough. Time for breakfast.

As I step out of the room, the butler crosses in front of me with a glass on a tray. He smiles pleasantly. “Ah, good morning. Hope you’ve had a good night’s rest.”

I smile, neither affirming nor denying. I flopped into bed at around 1:30, and while I know I fell asleep fairly quickly, my current state isn’t much indication that I slept particularly well.

He seems to understand, and hands me the strange-looking drink. “I have prepared for you a seltzer with cocaine. Best thing for the morning after if you ask me.” My eyes widen, but the butler winks and moves on.

I take a cautious sip. It tastes fine, and does help with the buzzing in my head, so I decide to keep it.

Damien is standing on the landing. He’s dressed in his tux, perfectly composed, looking out into the morning sunshine with his usual contemplative air. “Good morning, Damien,” I say, stifling a yawn.

He turns. His eyes drift up to my still rather mussed up hair, then down to my generally disheveled appearance, and a smirk tugs at his lips. Finally, he grins. “There’s our little monster,” he laughs. “You really knocked them dead last night.”

I flush, both from his look and his words. “Did I? … I don’t really remember.”

“Nearly cleaned me out,” he says. “Haven’t seen you go wild like that since our days at university.”

Is that what happened? Maybe I can finally pay those fees, then.

“Good to let the beast out every once in a while, eh, old friend?” He nudges me with his cane, but his smile suddenly wanes. “Then again, I'm… I’m still not exactly sure what it is we’re supposed to be celebrating here. I mean, it’s good to have the old gang back together, but out of the blue like this seems…” He pauses, then shakes his head and smiles once again. “Anyway. Now is not the time to become conspiratorial. Mark can do with his life as he wants. If he wishes to invite his old friends over with no previous indication of his intentions… well, he should. Life is ours to choose, after all.”

I nod, remembering the plaque from his office bearing that same phrase. It’s something he’s always said… he picked it up from some inspirational speaker who came to speak at our university during the war. I’ve never been very attracted to it, as it sounds like an excuse for inaction.

However, when Damien says it, it always sounds… hopeful. Makes me feel like I can do anything. I never mind that phrase as much coming out of his mouth.

Our eyes meet for half a second too long. He clears his throat. “I, ah, have some work to finish, but I’ll meet you at breakfast. Careful on the stairs.”

He retreats to his room hastily, and I slowly descend the staircase, sipping the seltzer. It seems to be a lovely sunny morning, and I smell eggs and bacon cooking.

Perhaps there will be biscuits as well, or toast.

Coffee is brewing. I can smell the rich roast. Mark always liked his coffee strong.

An art piece catches my eye as I pass into the hall, something ancient… and expensive. A suit of armor greets me from the other side. I vaguely remember it from before, but had the hallway always been so cold…?

I turn into the parlor, and my glass shatters to the floor.

~~~

A crack of lightning illuminates the body.

_Mark’s_ body, twisted unnaturally on the floor in front of the fireplace.

There’s no blood. His face is turned away from me. I don’t touch him, but I don’t need to. It’s obvious.

Mark is dead.

Abe the Detective walks into the room, wrapped in a white robe but still wearing his deerstalker cap. He’s speaking: “Hey, did you hear that lightning—”

He cuts off with a strangled gasp at the sight of the body. He then turns to yell to the rest of the house, “There’s been a murder!”

Lightning crashes again. I flinch. “Detective— ”

The butler walks in. “Excuse me but did you hear—” He sees the body. “MURDER!”

Lightning. I try again, “Abe, I don’t think—”

The chef enters. “Did you—” He shrieks. “MURDER!” just before another clap of lightning and thunder.

My ears hurt. “Detective—”

Abe seems to notice me for the first time, and scowls. He steps over the body and grabs me by the front of my dressing gown. “What happened? Who’s in charge around here?” Before I can answer, he pushes me back, sending me stumbling. “Trick question! That guy!” He points to the body. “He’s dead now, which makes me in charge.”

I regain my balance, adjusting the dressing gown around myself. “That doesn’t quite follow—”

“SO, you better listen up good, bucko. In case you haven’t been paying attention, there’s been a bit of a _killin_ ’.”

We pause, and wait expectantly.

Eerie silence.

Abe continues. “You’re my prime suspect, so you better get to explainin’ right quick as to what, when, where and why you happen to be here upon the time of this man’s death!”

My shock is overridden by extreme offense. “How dare you insinuate—!”

“Sir, the body’s cold,” the butler says, kneeling by Mark’s corpse. “He’s been dead a while.”

Abe grunts. “A likely story…” He glances at me. “…That I happen to believe completely. You’re off the hook… for now. But I’m a detective—”

“Is that so?” I scoff, crossing my arms. “I’ve heard a lot of talk, but I haven’t seen any badge, _Detective_.”

“Yeah, you want us to trust you, you gotta prove it!” the chef agrees, mirroring my stance. For a moment our eyes meet, and we nod in solidarity.

Abe rolls his eyes. “ _Here_. That good enough for you, _ladies_?” He whips out his wallet and exposes his badge. The chef bristles, but I’m distracted by the accordion of photos that cascade from the wallet.

He notices, and quickly starts folding them back up. “Oh… those are my old partners. Don’t ask me about them.”

I nod. “I understand. I know it's—”

“FINE, I’ll tell you!”

“Oh, alright.”

“Each one of them died.” He stares intensely at me. “Each death more tragic than the last. A few of them even died in… ironically hilarious ways" — the chef and I exchange glances— “Which made it all the more tragic.” Abe eyes me up and down, then nods decisively. “But hey! You look like you’re up to the task. You’re my new partner!”

I gape, and take a step back, waving my hands. The backs of my legs hit the couch behind me. “Um. No. No thank you. No thanks.”

He laughs. “That’s what all my old partners used to say, doll… right before they died.” Realization dawned on his face. “…Huh…”

I look at the chef for rescue. He says nothing, just looks back at me with wide eyes.

Great. I’m on my own then

I sigh. “Abe, being your partner sounds like—”

“You’re overqualified of course—”

“STOP interrupting me!” I jab a finger into his chest, and he backs up with wide eyes, hands raised in surrender. “Ahem.” I fold my arms. “This sounds stupid and dangerous… but for Mark, I’ll do it. I’ll be your partner… temporarily.”

He grins. “Alright. Hand me that fingerprinting kit behind you… partner.”

He winks.

I sigh.

Thus begins our investigation.

~~~

I leave the four in the parlor, mumbling something about needing to get dressed. Nobody stops me, but I suspect that has more to do with the look on my face than my reason for absence.

I stumble to my room. Kicking the door closed, I strip off the dressing gown that belongs to a dead man. Although it may not be the one he died in, I want it as far away from me as possible.

A fresh blouse, my trousers, my vest, and my tie go on. Slightly shaking hands smooth my hair down in front of the mirror. Part of me wonders why I’m bothering going through my normal routine when my friend is lying dead downstairs. 

But perhaps that’s exactly why. Routine is what keeps us sane. A reminder of order in the world. A protection of sorts, from the worms of doubt eating away at the mind. A silver bullet to the demons of insanity.

_Sanity is madness put to good uses._

I shake my head at my reflection. Mark had never read more than theatrical literature, but George Santayana’s poetry had piqued his interests. He was particularly fond of the man’s philosophies about sanity, or lack thereof.

Now that I think of it, perhaps my ongoing concerns for Mark weren’t unfounded.

As I move to close my suitcase, my thumb brushes a small bump on the inside lip.

I pause. Slowly, I press down and to the right.

A small compartment pops open, and the gleam of polished silver lays against the velvet. After some deliberation, I pocket the palm-sized revolver. If there’s a killer on the loose, I want to be ready.

I close my suitcase and slide it back under the bed. Taking a breath to steady myself, I exit the room.

I run into the Colonel in the hall. “Ah, there you are!” he laughs. “You were quite the rapscallion at last night’s festivities. I was rather impressed, I daresay. Now, what’s all the hubbub about?” he asks, with a friendly twitch of his mustache. 

The look on my face must tell him enough, for his face falls slightly. “…Ah… nothing good, I understand?”

“Mark is dead,” I say numbly.

His eye twitches. “… Impossible. I just saw him yesterday.”

"He was murdered.” A clap of thunder shakes the house. “… It must’ve happened after we all went to bed. I’m helping Abe with the investigation.”

The Colonel’s lip curls subtly. “I see.” My eyebrows raise, but he smiles suddenly and claps me on the shoulder. “Best you not keep him waiting, then! I’ll be having a pipe in the theater lounge.”

I must have gotten distracted, for he’s gone in the next second.

_Does he even care that his brother is dead?_

When I return to the parlor, the body is covered in a white sheet and the area is blocked off with makeshift barricades. I step around them.

“There you are,” the Detective says without looking up. He’s scribbling on a legal pad, but I can’t make out what he’s writing. 

He hugs it to his chest when I try to see. We glare at each other for a moment.

“…Emma?”

We all turn to see Damien in the doorway. Shock is etched on his face, and he fumbles a bit before speaking again. “Emma, Detective, what… what happened here?”

The butler, having just finished cleaning up the mess I made by dropping my glass earlier, looks up quickly. “Oh, Mister Mayor. I’m so sorry, but… there’s been a murder.”

Lightning flashes outside. Damien is slack-jawed. “… Murder?” He jumps as thunder and lightning flash again. “…Who?”

The Chef, who’s standing to the side, shrugs sadly. “It’s Mark.”

Damien stares agape at him. He then looks at me, then the Detective.

“I’m afraid he’s telling the truth,” Abe says with a sigh. “Mark’s been… killed.”

The Chef looks up expectantly, but the storm is strangely quiet. Damien shakes his head slowly. “…Why? Who would do this?”

“That’s exactly what me and my new partner here are going to find out.” Abe moves to put his hand on my shoulder but I step away. He awkwardly adjusts his hat instead. 

Damien’s eyes meet mine. We have a silent conversation.

_You’re his new partner?_

_Temporarily._

_This is insane. This… this can’t be happening._

_Damien…_

“Um… excuse me.” The butler clears his throat. “I feel like we should call the authorities for them to handle this matter.”

Abe growls. “Look buddy, as far as you’re concerned, I am the authorities.” He whips out his badge again and the photos cascade down. He attempts to fold them back up, but fails, and so just stuffs his wallet in his pocket. “The fact of the matter is, I believe the killer is right here among us, in this very house. With that freaky lightning storm outside, none of us would get very far anyway.”

Despite his claims, I’ve slowly crossed to the telephone and lifted it off the receiver. I hold it to my ear, but I hear nothing. “We wouldn’t be able to call, even if we tried. The line is dead. Must have been the storm.”

“See?” Abe says, crossing his arms triumphantly. “What did I tell you.”

The butler blinks. “You told me that you were the—”

“In the meantime, we’re stuck here. But Miss Bailey and I are gonna get to the bottom of this. The rest of you, stay on the grounds, make sure you’re always in sight of somebody else… and pray to God you’re not next to be murdered.”

Thunder rattles the window. 

“I'll… I’ll go check on the rooms,” the butler mumbles. 

The Chef straightens his uniform. “I’ll get back to cooking. All this death made me hungry!”

I stare after him mutely, having trouble processing what he just said.

Damien blinks, and swallows hard. He looks at me, then at the body, then shakes his head, slowly backing out of the room. “I… I need to talk to the Colonel about this.”

I reach out, but he’s gone before I can say a thing.

~~~

I kneel next to Abe, taking notes on the information he’s finding. His methods are questionable at best, and downright illegal at worst, but I’m too busy copying down the rapid-fire information he’s throwing at me to protest.

“So judging by the temperature of the body,” he says, tossing the thermometer somewhere behind him. “I am sure that Mark was killed at around 1:30 am last night.”

He suddenly looks at me and stands, pointing a finger accusingly at me. “So what were you doing at 1:30 am last night?!”

I correct the spelling of some of my notes. “I was asleep.”

He blinks. “You sleep with your eyes open?”

I roll my eyes. “No, I woke up to vomit and saw the clock when I went back to bed. I didn’t leave my room.”

“Oh.” He makes a face. “Well, it checks out. You’re _probably_ not the killer.”

“Thank you. I appreciate it.”

“So we need to figure out where everyone was and what they were doing around that time, or, at the very least, who saw Mark last.”

I nod and stand. “I’ll ask around, try to piece together what exactly happened last night.”

“Good call. I’ll stick with the body and run more… tests.”

I decide I don’t want to be privy to whatever he’s planning to do, and step around the barriers and out of the room.

I head to the theater, hoping that the Colonel is still there like he said he would be. The door is ajar.

I walk toward it, but suddenly hear loud voices, seemingly in an argument.

One of them is Damien. “How can you be so flippant?” he’s saying.

The other voice is definitely the Colonel. “Flippant? I’m taking this matter _very_ seriously.”

I take another step toward the door, and see Damien through it. I can only see his profile, but his posture is more than enough to tell me how he feels.

“Don’t give me that,” he growls. “I know you hated him, but… even after everything that happened, Will, Mark reached out to you!”

The Colonel scoffs. “Oh, what do you want from me?”

Damien is taken aback. “Wh- I want you to care!”

“Just because I’m not weeping like a child doesn’t mean that I don’t care.”

My friend shakes his head. He’s absolutely appalled. “I can’t believe you.” His voice rises angrily. “You come find me when you’re done being a pompous _brat_!”

He spins on his heel and marches to the door. I stumble back as I realize he’s coming my way, but I’m too late.

Damien pauses when he sees me, and some mixture of embarrassment and regret crosses his face before he pulls the door open. “Excuse me,” he mumbles, avoiding my eyes and pushing past.

I nearly stop him, but I haven’t seen him that upset in so long. Maybe he needs space before he’s ready to talk about it.

The theater is extravagant, as is Mark’s style, with several rows of cushioned seats and a miniature stage. I wonder offhand if he used to perform for himself on this stage, some lonely late night…

I move into the lounge and find the Colonel smoking a pipe.

“Damien, I don't—” He notices me finally, and his eyebrows shoot up. “Oh!” He stands, all smiles, his tone changing drastically. “Miss Bailey. You seem a mite better than you did this morning. Bacon and eggs put the spring back in your step?”

“Mark is still dead,” I say, unable to keep the bite from my tone.

“I see,” he says bitterly, setting his pipe down. “Then you must be here for the Detective’s ‘Investigation of Murder’.” He air quotes dramatically.

Thunder and lightning flash. The Colonel drops his hands, looking around.

“Colonel, can you tell me what happened last night?” I sigh, my notepad and pen at the ready.

He turns back to me and scowls. “Yes, I’ll tell you.”

“Excellent. Please proceed.”

“It’s very simple: Mark got drunk, fell down the stairs and killed himself.”

I pause. “… Mark can’t drink. Alcohol is deadly to him.”

“Well, there you are, then.”

“You just said he fell down the stairs.”

“Yes, he fell down the stairs and died.”

“How did he die?”

“He fell down the stairs, I just said.”

“But you said he was drunk.”

“He _was_ drunk.”

“Then he died from alcohol poisoning?”

“Yes, and then he died from falling down the stairs.”

I pause, reading over the meaningless notes I’m taking. “… You don’t actually know what happened, do you?”

He crosses his arms. “You’re the detective, madame. You figure it out.”

“I’m a lawyer.”

“And Mark was an idiot. Whether it was the stairs or the alcohol, you can be sure that it was his own doing.” He taps his forehead meaningfully, raising and lowering his eyebrows at me.

I nod slowly, backing away. “Yes, well… I’m going to investigate the rest of the house.”

He nods solemnly, picking up his pipe and sitting back down. “Go then. I’ll be here when you’re done.“

_I’m sure you will be, Colonel._

_~~~_

I find the butler in the hallway outside. He appears to be waiting for me, and I wonder if he has something to say.

“Excuse me, Miss Bailey,” he says, right on cue.

“I beg your pardon,” I say suddenly. “But I’d rather not call you ‘Butler’ my whole time here. What is your name?”

“Ah… Benjamin, Miss.” He smiles, seeming to be surprised that I even cared.

“Benjamin, then. May I help you?”

“Actually, I was wondering if I might help you.” He clears his throat. “There’s not a single detail of this house that I’m not privy to, and not a single guest that I haven’t personally vetted.”

This piques my interest. “Is that so?”

“Yes, Miss. And there is an area of interest that I would be glad to show you… I believe it is important.”

I keep my notepad at the ready. “Please, lead the way, then.”

Benjamin leads me to the other end of the house… although it seems to be a shorter walk than usual.

We stop at the gate to the wine cellar. “Is this it?” I ask, a bit doubtfully.

He nods, completely serious. “I warn you. What you are about to see is not for the faint of heart. A domain of evil this is… but in we must go.” He opens the gate, looks into the darkness, and steps to the side. “…You first.”

_How chivalrous_ , I think with an internal eye-roll.

The stairwell is dark, and I feel the coolness from the controlled temperature of the cellar even before I enter the cellar itself. Instead of relieving me from the humidity of the storm, however, it’s oppressive. Like a wet cloth being draped over my chest, weighing me down, making it hard to breathe.

I pause on the last step and take a laborious breath.

_In we must go._

I enter.

The cellar is dimly lit and sparsely decorated, yet immaculate. That is, I think it’s immaculate until I look down…

“AVERT YOUR EYES!” Benjamin dashes past me and falls to his knees, sliding into position next to a single smashed wine bottle on the floor. “I’m so sorry you had to see this!”

I blink. “It’s…it’s just a wine bottle.”

“Yes, but it’s the master’s favorite,” he cries pitifully, burying his face in his hands. “And now it’s all over the floor. He would be so displeased!”

I jump forward and grab his arm as he prepares to clean the mess up with a broom. “Wait! Don’t, not yet. That’s evidence. Let me get the Detective.”

Benjamin looks up at me with wide eyes. “But… the mess… ”

“Just a moment. Just one moment, understand? I’ll be right back. Don’t touch anything!”

I run back up the stairs, taking them two at a time, and bellow, “ABE! WE FOUND SOMETHING!”

With a muted smack, I run right into him in the hall, recoiling immediately. He pants, his pistol in one hand and the poker from the fireplace in the other. “What? What is it? Spit it out!” he yells in my face.

“Benjamin found something in the wine cellar,” I gasp, out of breath.

“Benjamin?”

“The butler.”

“I KNEW THAT GUY KNEW SOMETHING!” He throws the poker to the side and charges past me toward where I came from. I follow best I can, but by the time I get to the top of the stairs, he’s halfway down at a breakneck speed.

I shout a warning, but he trips, disappearing around the corner, and I wince as I hear rubbery flesh hit the floor.

“You okay, Abe?” I shout, starting down.

There is no answer. Instead, I hear him yell, “WHAT DID YOU DO? WHAT DID YOU DO WITH IT?”

I round the corner to see him holding a very distraught Benjamin by the scruff of his neck and pointing the revolver in his face.

“Whoa!” I approach him carefully. “Abe, put the gun away. What happened?”

He shakes Benjamin roughly. “This little _manservant_ got rid of the evidence before I could see it!“

The butler covers his face with his hands, sobbing pitifully. "I couldn’t stand it! The master would have been so angry with me!”

I sigh. “Benjamin, that was evidence.”

He’s not listening. He cries into his hands. “If only he were still alive!”

Abe and I exchange glances. The detective releases the butler, who drops to his knees in anguish.

I look at Abe. “Maybe we should, uh….” I gesture vaguely.

He gives me a single nod. We ascend the staircase, leaving Benjamin in the cellar. “Well there goes that chance,” he grumbles.

“I’ll keep an eye on him.”

“I’m sure you will.” He gives me a weird look. “Have you talked to Chef yet?”

I check my list. “No, he was going to be next.”

“You do that. I’ll meet up with you later.”

~~~

Next up is the Chef, and to be perfectly honest, I’m not looking forward to it.

I consider myself reasonably competent at self-defense, and I can fairly easily take on any of the other men in the house should the need arise. The Chef, however, is someone I doubt my abilities against. His size alone is an advantage over me, and his volatile temper seems dangerous.

_Pull up your big girl trousers, Emma._

I turn into the kitchen and find Chef violently chopping something on a cutting board. When I look more carefully, I see it's… a glob of spaghetti?

He whips around and jabs the knife at me. “I thought I told you to stay out of my kitchen!”

I fight to keep my composure. “I’m helping the detective with his investigation,” I say slowly. “I was… wondering if I could ask you what happened last night.”

“Ha!” He stabs the knife into the cutting board. “You think I’m the culprit, _don’t you_?”

“I… did not say that.”

“Well, I might look like a sweet and innocent man, but some people with short life-spans might think otherwise. I can’t imagine why, _can you?_ ”

“I— are you insinuating something?”

He picks the knife back up again and starts wiping it with a cloth, slowly and deliberately. “I’ll tell you what happened. Last night, after I got rid of all the evidence…”

I perk up. Is this a confession?

“… of that delicious meal I prepared… ”

Oh.

“… and wiped down all the fingerprints…”

Fingerprints?

“… from those filthy dishes…”

Sigh.

“And sopped up all that blood…”

I wait expectantly.

“… I retired to my room.”

Wait, what?

“I went to my room at 1 am and left my little buddy in charge, like I always do.” He crosses to a toddler-sized decorative statue that eerily resembles him and kisses it on the cheek. “He sees everything. Why don’t you ask _him_ what happened last night?”

I blink. “You want me to ask the statue.”

Chef scowls. I reconsider.

“I’ll ask the statue.”

He turns it around and pulls the statue’s fake hair to the side, revealing a small indentation. A screen.

I notice words written on the chef statue’s collar: _Little Buddy Security System_.

I gasp, realizing that Chef may not be as crazy as I think he is. “Oh my gosh, it’s a security camera.”

Chef grunts.

This is cutting-edge technology, with a viewing screen and the ability to play back what was recorded without having to take the tape out. Of course Mark could afford this, and when we were in school he had talked about getting something like this, but I hadn’t thought he would actually go through with it.

I quickly push the buttons to play back previous footage. There doesn’t seem to be anything interesting from the night before, but there’s footage dating back several days.

As I flip through, I notice something disturbing. The footage is taken from different locations.

Initially thinking, the Chef could have moved the statue before retiring every night. I would easily accept that as the case… if it’s not for the fact that the footage itself moves back and forth.

_Creepy_. I decide not to think too hard about it and rewind back to three days before, at 1:17 in the morning.

The statue seems to be in a closet, with wooden slats partially obscuring the view. But I can clearly see one thing: Abe.

Almost immediately, someone else comes into view, and my throat tightens.

Mark shakes Abe’s hand as they greet each other cheerfully. They seem to have been on good terms, then.

_“Look, I’ll cut right to the chase,”_ Mark is saying. _“Chef, Butler. Good?”_

Abe takes a breath, pausing before he speaks. _“Chef… military background, a little rough around the edges, but despite his demeanor, he’s clean. Uh… Butler, he’s a new guy. Bit too eager to please, and kind of a snob, but also clean. They shouldn’t give you any trouble, Mark, but, uh… let’s just say there might be some tension in the household.”_

Mark chuckles, clearly not bothered. _“Wouldn’t have it any other way.”_

The tape continues, but the rest of the footage has nothing of interest. I turn it off and push the statue back into place. “Chef, did you know anything about—”

I look around the kitchen, but the Chef is gone.

How did he disappear so quietly?

How long have I been standing here?

I seem to have more questions than answers at this point, but I write everything down on my notepad. Every suspect has their own section, with their alibis and possible motivations. I had included almost everyone in the house, but now I add a new one.

_Detective Abe._

… I should probably ask about his surname sometime.

~~~

I don’t consider myself to be particularly sensitive. Years in the courtroom made sure of that— Not to mention law school itself.

Even Mark’s death doesn’t seem to be phasing me as much as maybe it should be. I find myself wondering if I’m callous, or if maybe I just hated Mark.

I stop in the dining room on the way to the balcony, my heart jumping.

No, that can’t be true, I decide. If I hated Mark, I wouldn’t have gone to him when his wife left him and offered my services for free so he could file for divorce. I wouldn’t have sat with him, gently prying the wine bottle from his hands and letting him cry into my shoulder.

Mark was my friend. I’m not glad that he’s dead.

_Just because I’m not weeping like a child doesn’t mean I don’t care._

Mark’s death is upsetting, but I’m able to focus on my task. Despite everything, I’m not easily swayed.

However, when I find Damien hastily wiping tears from his face, it becomes hard to breathe.

I step out onto the balcony and pocket my notepad and pencil stub. He’s wringing his cane between his hands and pacing back and forth. He’s tense, his normally excellent posture bent and painful.

He notices me before I can say anything, and turns away, quickly passing his hand over his eyes. “Emma.”

“Damien.”

“I’m sorry you saw that argument with the Colonel.”

“It’s okay.”

“No, it’s not… I lost my temper, and it wasn’t right, and… ” He turns to me. His eyes are red, but he carefully maintains composure. “He must be in shock. The Colonel’s an eccentric… it’s his best quality and his worst.”

“You were good friends with both of them, weren’t you?” I ask gently.

Damien nods. Swallows hard. Looks away, then back at me and steps closer. He lowers his voice. “Emma… I don’t know what to do.” He clenches his cane in both hands, so hard his knuckles turn white. “I know I’m supposed to be a leader in this scenario, but I… I can’t help but feel lost. I’ve known Mark for years, since we were kids! And now he’s just…” His voice cracks. “… Gone?”

He chokes on a breath, and a tear slides down his cheek. My arms automatically lift and his head drops to my shoulder.

For a moment we stand, arms around each other. Mourning.

Damien’s shoulders shake. Hot tears drip onto my neck.

I rub his back, my throat closing. _How strange,_ I think offhandedly, _that it seems only tragedy will bring us together._

He pulls away. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles, pulling out his handkerchief and wiping his face. “I don't… I don’t know what came over me.”

I squeeze his arm. “It’s all right. You may be mayor, but… you’re still human, Damien.”

Damien smiles then, only slightly. “Thank you, Emma. These are… terrible circumstances to be in, but… all the same, I’m glad you’re here.”

We part, with a bit more hesitance than usual. Our eyes meet.

There’s something different there this time. A question that neither of us has dared to ask in the ten years we’ve known each other.

I fight to keep my breath even. _Surely this isn’t an appropriate time. But if we lose this moment, will we ever gain it back?_

Then we step apart, and the opportunity dissipates.

“So what will you do?” I ask softly.

Damien shakes his head. “I don’t know. I… don’t have any answers right now. Thank you for your counsel… and comfort, Emma. Truly. But right now, I… I just need to be alone… to process all of this. We’ll talk soon, but I need to think.”

I nod. “I understand. I’ll keep you updated.”

“Please do.”

I watch him walk to the railing of the balcony, his fist still clenched around his cane, but he’s standing a bit straighter. I smile a little.

“BAILEY!”

The harsh whisper jolts me, and I whip around to see Abe hiding (not very well) behind a topiary and gesturing me over violently. “Hey! Get over here, now! Hurry up!”

“Abe?” I dash over to him. “What’s going on?”

He grabs my wrist and pulls me back toward the house. “You’re not gonna believe this. I can hardly believe this!”

“Believe _what_?!”

“The body. It’s gone.”

He pushes me into the parlor.

“It’s just _gone_ , look!”

He’s right. All that’s left is the crude taped outline and makeshift barriers.

_Impossible_ , I think. _That’s insane. How could a body just… disappear?_

This case is becoming stranger and stranger.

Little do I know that we haven’t even scratched the surface.


	3. The Early Years: Early Mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the day...

_Mama?_

_Mama, where’d Dad go?_

_He’s gone, darling._

_But where did he go?_

_No fussing. Go get your brother._

_Jamie is gone too._

_Emma, you have to wake up. The train is leaving. You have to stop them._

_Mama… Mama, I can’t find you._

_I’m right here, dear._

_Where?_

_Go find Jamie._

_Jamie’s not here._

_Where’s Dad?_

_Dad’s gone. Jamie’s gone._

_Emma, get up, the train is leaving soon._

_Where’d Jamie go?_

_What about Ellen?_

_What about the baby?_

_Wake up, wake up. Stop the train._

_Have to find Damien. Have to stop him from leaving._

_Stop the train. Wake up._

_Emma, you need to wake up._

_Wake up._

_Wake up._

“Emma!”

I jolted awake, my head clunking on the hard arm of the sofa.

My best friend’s face hovered over me, his eyebrows furrowed. “Are you alright?” Damien said softly.

I elected not to answer, and sat up instead, rubbing my head. Early morning sunlight filtered through the dorm window, illuminating the textbooks, papers, and laundry that were strung about the room. Someone was rustling around in the tiny kitchen area. I smelled coffee brewing.

Damien sat next to me on the couch, letting his hands hang between his knees, then folding them. “You fell asleep while we were studying,” he explained. “We, uh… didn’t want to disturb you.”

Normally the scandal of the situation would have made me laugh. But an unspoken question hung in the air, one that I wasn’t quite ready to answer.

Thankfully, just as Damien opened his mouth to ask, I was saved. His roommate Mark came in with three cups of coffee and much less theatrics than usual. Maybe because he didn’t want to call too much attention to the room and give me away.

“No shame in nightmares,” Mark said matter-of-factly. “Everyone has them.”

Damien nodded solemnly, and I wondered if, in some midnight hour, he’d woken Mark up in the same way he’d woken me.

I took the coffee offered and sipped it slowly, recoiling at first at the strong brew.

“More cream?” Mark asked, a slight twinkle in his eye.

I glared at him and took another sip, maintaining eye contact the whole time. “It’s fine,” I said defiantly.

Damien snickered and Mark outright laughed. For several minutes we sat in silence, drinking our coffee. It must have been ridiculously early, for nobody was stirring in the dorm. If I was going to sneak out, I’d have to do it now.

“Already got you covered,” Mark winked, as if reading my mind. He gestured to a rope of tied sheets coiled by the window.

Damien examined the rope critically. “Did you knot them properly this time?” he asked doubtfully. Mark placed a hand on his own chest, a wounded look on his face.

“Why, Damien, I’m shocked. You think I would endanger your very own Juliet? Perish the thought, your words strike my heart through.”

Damien and I groaned in unison. Ever since we were freshmen, and had, out of curiosity, gone on one date, Mark had dubbed Damien and I “Romeo and Juliet”, insisting that our illicit love story would end in tragedy. This was ridiculous, as in addition to that being horrifically grim, we didn’t even _have_ a love story. We had mutually felt on that one date that a romance wasn’t even necessary between us. We enjoyed just being friends, and so it stayed that way.

Mark never let us forget it, however.

“Hasn’t that bit run its course, Mark?” Damien said tiredly as I gathered my books and pens.

“Never.” Mark propped one foot on a chair and placed a hand over his breast. “It will run and run until the end of time. And it will run even after, for eternity, as the sun turns cold and the earth stops spinning. The old gods have died and still it runs, the new gods are dying and still it runs. Existence itself wanes, and it runs on. Forever,” he whispered. A single tear dripped down his cheek.

Impressed, Damien and I applauded.

Mark bowed.

Slinging my backpack onto my back, I opened the window and, after making sure the yard was empty, slung the rope out.

Damien joined me as I sat on the sill. “Be careful,” he said, as he always did. I scrunched up my nose and gave him a silly grin, making him laugh.

“I’ll see you at lunch,” I said, climbing out the window.

“I’ll see you,” he said. “And, Emma…” I stopped, waiting for him to continue. He lowered his voice and his eyebrows furrowed earnestly. “If you need to talk… about anything. I’m here. We’re here. Okay?”

My heart stuttered. I nodded.

Damien smiled. Mark waved from the couch.

I took a firm hold of the sheet-rope, and jumped.


	4. The Early Years: Condolences

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the day...

I was getting tired of the color black.

My sister-in-law stood at one side, holding her baby. Black veil, black dress.

Damien stood at the other side. Black suit.

My skirt and blouse were black. My hat was black. I twisted the flower stems in my fingers. At least they weren’t black.

Mark stood behind me, and I felt his hand on my shoulder.

His hand was shaking.

He wore black, too.

One by one, we dropped the flowers onto the simple memorial. There was no grave. There were no bodies.

There was nothing. Nothing but dirt and stone.

I watched the flowers fall, intrigued by how some fell faster than others.

Did some of them die faster than the others?

Nobody spoke. Not even Mark, who had prepared a eulogy. When i stepped away from the memorial, I glimpsed his face. He looked angry.

I didn’t blame him. We all were.

His wife stood behind him like a spectre. Alien, curious.

We didn’t acknowledge each other.

I didn’t feel anything, although I felt like I should be crying or something.

We all prepared to leave, and Damien grabbed my arm as I walked past. “Hey—Emma—“

I didn’t want his comfort. He still had his sister, his parents. I had nobody.

He tried again. “Emma, please.”

My sister-in-law gave me a look. Her eyes were empty and cold. She ignored Damien as she passed by, continuing on to the car. Mark and his wife followed.

I forced myself to succumb to Damien’s hand on my arm, and faced him. “What, Damien.”

I didn’t dare look him in the eyes. I was too afraid of what I’d see there.

Too afraid of what he’d see.

He pinched his lips between his teeth and let go of my arm slowly. “Emma, if…if you or Ellen need anything, just…”

“No.”

He paused. “Pardon?”

“I don’t want your help, Damien.”

My voice was cold like granite. My shoulders were stiff. My nails bit into my palms as my hands clenched into fists. “We can get along fine on our own. I’ll take care of Ellen and the baby.”

“But your license—“

“I’m going to quit. I’m quitting law school.”

His jaw tightened. “Emma, you’re not thinking straight.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re not!” He grabbed my arm again as I tried to walk away. “You’re grieving, Emma, but you’re not stupid!”

I planted my feet, my chest heaving. Was I angry? This didn’t feel like anger. But I didn’t feel sad, either. I didn’t understand.

It wasn’t until I heard my own sobs that I realized what was happening.

As naturally as if he’d done it every day of his life, Damien pulled me against his chest and wrapped his arms around my shoulders.

“Hey, hey, shh. Shhh,” he whispered into my hair.

“I don’t want this, I don’t— I don’t want to feel this, make it go away,” I choked, holding onto his jacket for dear life.

He stroked my hair and patted my back. “I know. I know.”

“I don’t want to quit school, I don’t want to, I don’t– I don’t know what to do.”

“I know. Just… just no big decisions right now, okay? There’s time. There’s time.”

I don’t know how long we stood there, slightly swaying as the breeze stirred the grass around us. It was all surreal, from the deaths of my father and brother to the fact that this is what it took for Damien to really, truly hold me.

I hated myself for even thinking about that that day. But the thought stuck, even as we separated and left in our respective cars. Even as we went about our days, and the days turned to months. Even as I continued in law school, supported by scholarships and mysterious philanthropy. Even as I watched my nephew grow into a happy, healthy ankle-biter, thanks to his mother’s hardworking spirit and generous friends.

Despite all this, I ignored the memory of the warmth of his arms and the kindness of his voice. We were professionals, and didn’t want to risk our friendship for the sake of curiosity.

I figured that once I had grieved long enough that the strong, confusing feelings brought on by tragedy would fade, and it would be back to normal.

I was wrong.


	5. The Early Years: Election

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the day...

I couldn’t believe it. Well, I _could_ believe it, but it was a shock.

Damien had been elected mayor.

He would be an amazing mayor, that much I knew, but I also knew he was nervous. That was perfectly normal, but his new schedule would put more stress on him than usual. Would he be able to handle it? Was he experienced enough that he wouldn’t crack under the pressure? Would he—

“Emma, your tea is going to get cold.”

I snapped out of my reverie to look at Damien, sitting across from me at the small table. He raised an eyebrow and smirked slightly, setting down his teacup. “You’re distracted today.”

I smiled. “I have a lot to think about.”

“The point of this was to _not_ think about work, was it not?”

“Right, of course. Wouldn’t want to overburden my _mayor_.” I allowed a bit of my own teasing to slip out, grinning as he cleared his throat awkwardly.

“…It still sounds strange to hear you call me that,” he mumbled, stirring more sugar into his tea.

“I agree.” I gently moved the sugar bowl out of his reach and picked up my own cup. “Just as it’s strange to read _Dear Madame District Attorney_ in your handwriting.”

A grin appeared on his face. “It has a nice ring to it, though, doesn’t it?”

I laughed. But my smile quickly disappeared. “You know people are going to talk.”

His eyebrows rose, and I elaborated, “They’ll think you only suggested me because we went to university together. And because we're…"

Damien frowned. “We're…?”

I looked away, cleared my throat, and looked back. “We’re _friends_ ,” I said, hoping he would get my insinuation.

“… Ah.” Damien leaned back, his eyebrows knitting.

“Yeah.”

He stared into the distance, a deeply thoughtful expression on his face. I fiddled with the napkin on my lap. We sat in awkward silence for several moments.

Then he spoke. “I’m sorry if our relationship is…burdensome, Emma.”

“Damien, please don’t say it like that. I wouldn’t trade our friendship for anything. I just know that the situation has potential to be…scandalous.”

“But there is no scandal. Absolutely nothing is going on that would suggest that.”

I sighed. “That’s not what they say.”

Damien’s expression hardened. “I don’t care what they say.”

“You should. They’re the ones electing you.”

“True, but…” He huffed and shifted in his seat. “I chose you because you’re a good lawyer, not because we’re close.”

“I know, I’m just…” I struggled with the term. “…worried for you.”

Damien’s small smile lit up the whole balcony. He set down his cup, reached across the table and gripped my hand. “It’s a good thing we’re working together, then,” he said. His eyes twinkled. “You can be my bodyguard. I’ll send over the bad guys and you can recite the law at them.”

That earned him a short laugh. “Perhaps throwing the books themselves at them would be more productive.”

He laughed, too, releasing my hand. “That might defeat the point, but… A for effort?”

The tension eased as we laughed together. I noticed the white flower on his lapel, the soft ridges in his bowtie, his new haircut. He tilted his head and our eyes met. “You’re thinking again,” he said teasingly.

“Yes, it’s a habit, I’m afraid.”

“What’s spinning the old cogs this time, hm?”

“…Well, since you asked.” I uncrossed my legs and leaned my arms on the table. “…It might be a while until we can do this again.”

Damien scowled. “I don’t want to think about that.”

“You _are_ the mayor now.”

“Hmph.” He turned away grumpily, crossing his arms.

I smirked. “Can’t run away from it forever, Dames.” I paused, and lowered my voice. “…We’re both going to be very busy. But we can make it work if we decide it’s important enough.”

He pinched his lips between his teeth, then let out a sigh. “…Life is ours to choose,” he conceded.

I lifted my teacup. “I’ll drink to that,” I said, only half-jokingly.

Damien smiled, uncrossing his arms. He lifted his own cup, and we drank a toast.

To freedom, to the election, and to us.


	6. A Chance Affair

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here in the present, or whatever we consider the "present" to be...

**“This is all your fault.”**

Darkiplier pinches the bridge of his nose. His aura flickers, jerking his head to the side, screaming.

Eris stands beside him, wearing one of his maroon dress shirts and a black pencil skirt. Three of the googles stand on the opposite side of the room, glaring at her over the body of the fourth. He lays on the ground, Eris’s hatchet protruding from his head. Sparks fly from the gouge.

“It’s not my fault, Dark!” Eris hugs Dark’s arm, looking up at him with innocent eyes. “He made fun of me.”

The three remaining googles growl and twitch from across the room. They stutter as they speak in unison. “She’s lying. She is the one who provoked us.”

The woman snarls and stomps toward the fallen google. “You stupid androids. You’re useless to Dark’s plan!” She grabs the hatchet and yanks it from his head, hefting it with deadly precision. The three googles smirk and stalk forward.

A high-pitched whispering fills the room as Dark’s aura expands, his fury compromising his shell. **“Enough of this. Both of you are useless to my plan at the moment.”** Eris freezes, turning to him with wide eyes. Dark sneers. **“And you know what happens to failed assets.”**

Tears fill the young woman’s eyes. Her hatchet clatters to the floor as she lunges, clutching Dark’s arm. “Darling, please…!”

He pulls his arm away from her, and with practiced ease, his other hand swings around and latches onto the back of her neck. He pulls her close, bringing her lips mere centimeters from his. **“I am displeased with you, Eris,”** he growls.

She knows better than to fight, but she twitches with the urge to run. Darkiplier smirks and squeezes warningly, before letting go, shoving her away.

He turns to leave the room, opening the door. He pauses. **“Stay put. I will come to get you when I’m ready for you.”** He exits, his aura following him and slowly seeping out of the room until there’s nothing but the distressed beeping and glitching of the fallen android.

Eris falls to her knees, tears slipping down her cheeks. Slowly, she sits, pulling her knees to her chest, pressing her forehead to them.

Google Blue picks up the hatchet. He grins evilly and slowly approaches her from behind, lifting it over his head.

The door bursts open and everyone flinches. “Hey now!” A deep voice booms. “That’s the lady’s hatchet. Give it back now.”

Google stares at the pink-mustached man standing in the doorway, then scowls. He drops the hatchet at Eris’s side, then continues to glitch and grumble as he and his clones gather up the broken yellow-shirted android. They carry him out of the break room and toward their workshop.

The mustached man watches them leave, his hands on his hips. Then he turns to look at the woman on the floor.

He crosses over and plops on the floor in front of her, resting his elbows on his knees and his chin in his hands. “What’s the matter, kiddo? You can tell ol’ Wilfy anything.”

Eris looks up, flushing red. “Mr. Warfstache, I… ” She sniffles and rubs her face. “My sorta boyfriend… Darkiplier… he’s mad at me… ”

Wilford looks perturbed for a moment, then nods sagely. He lifts a hand and rests his on her strawberry-blonde hair. He pats her head gently. “Everything will be just fine, kiddo. That ol’ bag of bones is a fickle man. He’ll come around, you’ll see.”

Eris stares at him. For a moment, she’s terrified that somehow Dark heard what Warfstache said and that he’ll come and kill them both.

Wilford chuckles, seeming to read her mind. “Oh, I’m not afraid of him. He’s just a big baby sometimes!”

She gapes as he laughs. _Surely… surely Dark wouldn’t stand for this. Surely this warrants execution._ She then remembers when she first met the pink-mustached man. Darkiplier had been irritated, but much more… forgiving than usual. Almost as if he couldn’t do anything to Wilford if he wanted to.

She knew they were business partners, but was there something more to Wilford Warfstache than what she could see…?

A large finger pressed to her nose startles her out of her thoughts. Wilford’s twinkling eyes are inches from hers as he grins. “Do you like to dance, dollface?”

Eris nods before she even thinks about it.

With a whoop, he jumps to his feet, pulling her up with him. With plenty of gusto and an impressive voice, he begins to sing an upbeat song about some boy blowing a horn or something.

Eris, used to slow-dancing with Dark, is clumsy with the steps and turns, but her partner’s enthusiasm makes the dance fun.

“I didn’t catch your name back when Dark introduced us,” he says, breathing easily despite the fast pace.

“It's— It’s Eris,” she pants, trying to keep up with his footwork. “That’s what Dark calls me.”

“Goddess of chaos!” He twirls her, laughing. “That’s a fitting name for a lady like you!”

The fun is over, however, when Wilford sets his hand on the back of her neck. He’s preparing to lean her into a dip, but at the semblance of a threat she jerks into survival mode.

In one smooth movement, she pulls away and reels back, and catches his cheekbone in a right hook.

“… _Ow_.”

“Oh. Oh no.” Eris covers her mouth in horror. Wilford is hunched over, his back to her, holding his face.

_He’s going to kill me._

She reaches for him in a panic. “Mr. Warfstache, I-I am so sorry, please forgive me, I didn’t mean… it was just… ”

Eris chokes on a sob, unable to continue. _Any chance I have of being friends with him is gone._

A quiet chuckle grabs her attention. She keeps her distance warily. _Laughter does not always mean happiness._

Wilford turns to her, removing his hand from his face. There’s a cut on his cheek, and around it an ugly bruise is forming. He’s grinning.

It’s not a threatening grin, which is the strangest thing. It’s surprised, but happily so, like he just recognized a punchline. “Just… just a joke?”

Eris blinks. Trying to figure out whether he’s angry or not.

His eyes are friendly, and his body language open and relaxed.

Darkiplier smiles often, but rarely (if ever) in a friendly way.

Wilford was really smiling. Laughing. Not mocking her, but as if she had just done something wonderful.

He’s pleased with her. He thinks she’s making a joke.

It is pretty funny, isn’t it?

She allows herself a smile, and then a grin.

Wilford laughs, grabs her around the waist and swings her around, hugging her close.

Eris hugs his neck, burying her face in his shoulder.

He smells like peppermint, cotton candy, and there’s an underlying scent that’s sharper, almost… coppery.

She loves it.

He finally sets her down, and she holds onto him, afraid he’ll leave, like Dark usually does.

He doesn’t. Instead, he wraps an arm around her shoulders and sets a big, enthusiastic kiss on her forehead. “You make some pretty good jokes there, sugarplum.”

He starts to lead her out of the room, holding her close to his side, making no indication of leaving. Eris smiles and hesitantly wraps her arm around his waist. “I know more.”

His laugh echoes around the halls. “You’ll have to teach me!”


	7. Who Killed Markiplier: Ours to Choose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the mansion...

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally posted on Tumblr in multiple parts. It has been edited together to make one complete chapter.

“Who _did_ this?”

I crouch next to the tape outline as the detective paces behind me. “I don’t know, Abe.” I brush my fingers over the small smears on the floor. “The blood is still here, so it couldn’t have been Benjamin. He would have cleaned it up.”

“Ben..?”

“The butler.”

“Oh.”

I shift to look at Abe and raise an eyebrow. “To my knowledge, you were the last one to be with the body, Detective.”

He scoffs dismissively. “Um, no. It certainly wasn’t me. No, no. Somebody, _not me_ , must have moved it between the time I was with the body in the room, and then stepped out for a few minutes to take care of some personal business that _you don’t need to know about_.”

“Um, okay.” _I wasn’t going to ask but okay_.

“It could have been anybody… ” He eyes me. “Except me.”

“And Benjamin.”

“Sure, sure.”

Right on cue, the butler enters the room. “What happened here?” he cries.

“The body’s been moved,” Abe answers.

“On its own?”

“No, of course n—” I begin, but Abe interrupts me.

“No, of course not.” He pauses and points at me in sudden revelation. “Unless it did. In which case we’ve got way bigger problems than a simple murder.”

I wait for the thunder to stop. “…Detective, I really don’t think it moved on its own.”

The Chef joins us, and exclaims at the lack of the body. “What happened?!”

“The body moved!” Benjamin says.

“On its own?”

I rub my head. “Why would you think…”

“We haven’t quite ruled that out yet,” the Detective say seriously. “But let’s not forget, we’ve got a murderer.”

“Why do you keep saying that,” I mumble. Thunder crashes outside and I turn automatically to look out the window.

The Colonel appears in front of me. “Quite a storm out there, eh, chaps?” he says as I recover from my mini-heart-attack. He steps around the barriers to joint the other three men. “What are you doing huddled around here in fear?”

“We have a zombie problem,” Abe says.

“NO, WE DON’T!” I groan. The Detective raises his eyebrows at me in surprise.

“Ah, homo necrosis!” The Colonel looks down at the tape and places his hands on his hips. “The most dangerous game.”

I wonder if he’s even read the story he just referenced, or if he just went to see Joel McCrea perform the role. A bit before our time, but he seems like the type to appreciate classic film.

I, on the other hand, prefer the written word.

I blink as I realize I’m getting off track.

“Well, if someone needs to put the old lad down again, I’m well up for the privilege,” the Colonel is saying. Abe and I are instantly on the alert.

“What do you mean by _again_?” Abe says suspiciously.

“And what do you mean by _privilege_?” I add.

The accused blinks at us. “I’m just saying I have plenty of… e-experience on the matter,” he says, as if surprised we hadn’t already considered it.

“So do I,” says the Chef before I can ask further questions. He and the Colonel exchange a meaningful but not entirely friendly glance. I pause, and remember Abe’s words about the Chef from the security tape.

_Military background._

Were the two in the army together?

“Well that just raises more questions,” the Detective is saying bitterly. “You— where do you think you’re going?!”

We watch as the Colonel steps around the barriers to leave. “I’m off to the grounds to see if I can catch a whiff of the old bag of bones, eh?” he says, a disturbing laugh bubbling up from his chest.

“Wait… weren’t you and Mark the same age…?” Benjamin asks, but the Colonel is already gone, his laughter ringing in the halls.

The Detective narrows his eyes. “I don’t trust him.” His eyes lose focus and he momentarily seems to be in another world. “Then again, I don’t trust anyone.”

I glance at the Chef and Benjamin. They shrug.

Abe comes back to the present. “Alright, lock this place down. Secure the front gate. I don’t want anyone in or out of this place until we get to the bottom of this.”

“Locks won’t keep people from getting out, sir,” Benjamin says with concern.

The Chef grunts. “Locks won’t. But Chef will!”

He storms out. The Butler gives me a pained, slightly panicked look, and I offer him an encouraging nod. Seeming to relax a bit, he excuses himself.

Abe faces me, his sharp, searching eyes seeming to probe my insides. I shift uncomfortably.

“What?” I say.

He straightens and sticks his hands in his pockets. “Look, Bailey. You’re a real smart lady. Handsome, too. _Beautiful_ , even.”

He says it as if stating an obvious fact. I raise an eyebrow. _Now_ he takes the opportunity to flirt with me? And he’s not even very good at it?

But he’s not finished. “You’re pretty well known in these parts, in case you didn’t know. You take on some of the toughest cases in town… I investigated in some of them, though you probably don’t remember.”

I don’t. I’ve met a hundred detectives in my line of work.

“Mark mentioned you a lot. Said you were the best attorney he’s ever known… and an even better friend.”

He looks earnest now, a disconcerting look on his normally-suspicious-of-everyone face. But his mention of our mutual friend sends a pang through my chest. _You had better not make me cry, Abraham, or I swear I will roundhouse kick you into the sun._

“I’m telling you this because… well, Mark trusted you. More than he trusted himself, I’ll wager. He considered you one of his closest friends, and… well, I just want you to know that… so far, you’re alright in my book. And I don’t trust many people, but… I think I’m willing to trust you. Partner.”

I look down at his offered hand. After a moment’s consideration, I accept and shake it.

He grins, a glint in his eye. “Now let’s go find us a zombie.”

This time, I don’t bother to correct him.

~~~

As I’m unfamiliar with the house, Abe takes the lead. As he guides me through the halls, we discuss the case.

“I think we forgot the most important question of all during our arousing game of whodunit,” he says. “Why.”

“Why?”

“Why. Why did he invite us all here? Why tonight?”

I nod in agreement. “He said we were celebrating something, but he never specified what.”

“It’s almost as if this whole shindig of a hootenanny was just a ruse.”

Abe holds a curtain aside and lets me step through first. I pull out my notes as we walk and frown over them. “But a ruse for what?”

“I don’t know,” he growls, and by his tone I can tell he _really_ dislikes not knowing. “I hadn’t seen him in person in years, right up until a few days ago for some trivial business stuff.”

He says it dismissively, and I stay silent. I know why he was meeting with Mark.

“Mark was my friend: had been for years,” he continues. “But then he went quiet. If you two were as close as he claimed…” His eyes slide to me. “You probably know what happened.”

I nod. “Damien and I tried to help, but…”

“So did I.”

_It wasn’t enough_ , we both finish silently.

Abe turns abruptly and keeps walking. “Look, I’m gonna level with you; you’re my new partner. I’ve been working with Mark for years, and I know something is wrong. There is a murderer—” Thunder crashed as we approached a staircase. We pause for it to pass, then continue. “—here amongst us, and we need to find him.”

“Him?” I press. “You say that very confidently, Detective.”

“Well.” He stops on the landing and spins to face me. “As of right now, you’re the only woman here, Bailey. And I know we just met, but I am an excellent judge of character.” He grins. “Excellent like a fox.”

“Um, what?”

“You don’t look like you have a reason to kill him. And if you do…” He laughs. “Best to keep your enemies close, eh? Wink wink.”

He winks at me with both eyes. Before I can think of an appropriate response, he’s turned and started back up the stairs, talking again.

“So what is the real question we need to ask ourselves, concerning our suspects?”

“Who stands to gain the most from Mark’s death,” I answer automatically, glad to finally be back in my realm of understanding.

“Right. Now, in my thorough analysis of the corpse’s anal cavity, I discovered that in addition to being stabbed 37 times, he was also poisoned, beaten, strangled, drowned, and shot, in that order.”

I pause to copy down the list onto my notepad. “…Overkill much?”

Abe nods sharply. “It’s not an accident, that’s for darn sure.” He leads me through a fancy sitting-room on the second floor. “No. No, my friend. There’s gonna be no simple candlestick-in-the-library solution to this whole…puzzle.”

He stops at a beautifully carved wooden door. “So, we’re gonna have to do the detective-ly thing and go through the victim’s most private and personal possessions.”

I stop. “Mark's… bedroom?”

Abe quirks an eyebrow at me and steps to the side. “After you.”

I turn the handle, half-expecting it to be locked. It’s not, and I push the heavy door open.

We both stop just inside.

The room is in shambles. Papers and books are flown about and furniture is overturned.

But that’s not what our eyes are immediately drawn to.

A sinking feeling fills our stomachs.

An empty, pastel blue crib sits against the far wall, untouched by the chaos around it.

We exchange glances.

Abe grunts. “… It could mean anything.”

I nod, and sketch a quick image of the crib on my pad for later discussion.

I step around the mess as Abe moves in a different direction. “Looks rough, but I don’t think he was killed here,” he muses. “See if you find anything, but BE CAREFUL.” I freeze in place at his change in tone and twist to see his face. He looks absolutely serious. “I’ve lost partners before to bedroom booby traps.”

I turn before he can see me roll my eyes, and carefully head toward the table in front of the window.

What drew my eye is the row of framed photographs, all arranged carefully except for one.

“Make sure you don’t tamper with any evidence!” Abe calls from across the room. I give a generic noise of acknowledgement and bend down to examine the pictures.

The first is a picture of the Colonel, Damien, and Mark. They appear to be at some sort of party— and they’re all young. Mid-teens, it seems. Seeing the Colonel without a mustache or his uniform makes me realize just how alike he and Mark look… unnervingly so. Any doubt that I had that they were brothers dissipates.

The next picture was taken later— at a celebration of the end of the war. The Colonel is in uniform and Damien in a sweater vest, just like he wore when we were in university. Mark is there as well, and in his arms is a laughing young woman.

Celine, Damien’s sister, and Mark’s wife.

The two seem oblivious to their friends. Damien and the Colonel stand to the side, pushed out of the frame by the lovers. The Colonel’s expression is hard to read, but I notice a twist in Damien’s mouth. He’s generally a very composed man, but I know his tell for when he’s angry.

I take down a few notes.

I recognize the third photo, for I’m the one who took it.

It was at an after party for one of Mark’s new movies. This had been a few months after Celine had left. Mark had invited Damien and I, and we were elated, hoping that he was finally on the mend.

But he acted strange. In the picture, the two have their arms slung around each other’s shoulders, wine glasses in their hands. Damien is smiling, overjoyed to be with his friend again.

But Mark…

Mark is also smiling, but it’s not the cocky, toothy grin that I’m accustomed to. It’s calculated, his eyes dark and brooding, makeup barely concealing the deep circles under them.

That was the last time I saw him before last night, I realize.

Damien and I had to leave the party early, as we had to go back to work the next morning. Mark saw us off, and as he hugged me, Mark whispered in my ear, “Make sure you have no regrets. Life is for the living, eh?”

When I pulled back with a questioning look, he motioned with his eyes toward Damien.

I flushed and quickly pecked Mark on the cheek, saying nothing except farewell. The drive home was tense, despite Damien’s valiant attempts to make light conversation.

I now brush my fingers over the frame of the photo, thinking back on what Mark had said.

_No regrets._

Had he been trying to warn me?

Had he known what was going to happen?

The last picture frame is lying face down on the table, amid a pile of broken glass. I pull out my handkerchief and carefully pick the frame up with it.

“Did you find something?” Abe calls, and I hold up the portrait in response before looking down at it.

It’s of the Colonel, in uniform and on the field. He’s holding a rifle and looking quite pleased with himself.

Scrawled on the bottom right corner, in black pen, are the words “I’ll be home soon. ~William.”

When I look back up, the Colonel is standing in front of me with murder in his eyes.

~~~

“You’re quite on the case, aren’t you?” the Colonel says, a friendly smile on his face.

I take a small step back. “Colonel. Yes, we’re making progress.”

“I see, I see.” He doesn’t take his eyes off me. “Say, Detective? Mind if I borrow your friend here?”

Abe meets my eyes across the room. He frowns questioningly. _You okay with this?_

I nod.

He grimaces slightly. “Yeah, sure. I’ll handle it from here.”

“Bully,” the Colonel nearly growls.

He exits the room and I follow, pausing to hand Abe the photograph. He takes it but grabs my wrist before I leave. “Hey. Be careful with him,” he says quietly. “He may seems innocent… but I have reason to believe he’s up to something. He may even be the—”

I clap my hand over his mouth. “Don’t say it,” I warn.

He nods against my hand, and I let go. “If he tries anything… Don’t be afraid to call for help.”

I smile. “Don’t worry. I have a few tricks of my own up my sleeve.”

He raises an eyebrow, smirking slightly. “Up your sleeve like that ace of diamonds?”

“Accuse me of cheating again and I’ll try my tricks out on _you_.”

He laughs. “Alright, alright, dollface. Better not keep the Colonel waiting.”

I would deck him for calling me _dollface_ , but his good humor puts me in check. I almost forgot how invaluable humor is in times of tragedy.

That’s something else I miss about Mark. He always knew when to make a sarcastic comment or make a ridiculous analogy. Abe kind of reminds me of him… maybe they really _were_ good friends.

The Colonel is waiting for me just outside the door. He grins.

_He’s trying to intimidate me._

I smile back, a challenge.

His mustache twitches. “Take a walk with me. I thought it was about time we got to… know each other. Someplace far, far away from the prying eyes of… anyone else.”

He nearly growls those last words. My hand closes around the Derringer in my pocket, the cool metal on my skin a welcome comfort. If the Colonel makes a threatening move, he’ll be dead in less than a second.

Damien’s voice comes back to me. _The Colonel’s an eccentric. It’s his best quality and his worst._

My friend may be a little too trusting for my liking, but at the end of the day… he’s usually right.

I leave the gun in my pocket and take out my notepad instead. The Colonel grins.

I follow him through a door leading to the balcony. We get outside, and pass by the fountain…

Wait, wasn’t the fountain on the ground floor?

The Colonel speaks suddenly. “Correct me if I’m wrong, but… you and the mayor are rather fond of each other, aren’t you?”

My confusion gives way to defense. I force myself to speak calmly. “Yes, we’ve been good friends for several years.”

“Since university, yes? He’s a good man, that one.”

“Yes, he is.”

“We’ve been fast friends for as long as I could remember. Now there’s a time I could’ve said the same about Mark, but…”

I’ve been taking notes on my notepad, but his pause makes me look up. His fists are clenched and his jaw is tight.

I raise an eyebrow. “You and Mark were brothers, no?”

“No,” he says sharply.

Now both of my eyebrows shoot up.

He scowls. “… Biologically, perhaps. But I would be surprised if _anyone_ would actually _want_ to call him their…” He stops.

“Their…?” I prompt.

He shakes his head. “… Nevermind. Best not to speak ill of the dead. You never know who might be listening.”

Great. Eccentric and superstitious. “Colonel, was there something you wanted to speak to me about?”

“Hm?” He’s looking around fondly at the grounds. We stop at the edge of a finely-crafted swimming pool. He gasps in delight. “Oh! The pool hasn’t aged a day!”

I look down at it in confusion. “The pool—?”

“GERONIMO!”

I squeal as water splashes onto me. The Colonel has jumped in, and I wonder if I’m hallucinating, for it appears that instead of his uniform, he’s wearing a red striped bathing suit and sun hat.

“Excuse me, have you seen—?” I turn to see Damien coming around the corner, seeming to be in a hurry. He blinks when he sees me. “… Emma? You’re soaked, what…?”

“The Colonel,” I say, a little bitterly. “He…”

We both look at the pool. The Colonel is nowhere to be seen.

I look back at Damien. He sighs. “Well, I was looking for him. I was a little short with him in our last encounter, and I wanted to speak with him.” I’m slightly distracted as I watch him smooth his hair back, but snap back to attention when he looks me up and down with a frown. “You’re going to catch cold like this. Let me get you a towel.”

He walks off as I half heartedly protest. “Oh, thank you, but I don’t really—”

“Life needs a bit of madness, eh, lass?”

I spin around and shriek. The Colonel stands before me, perfectly dry, back in his uniform and hat. He grins as I glare. “Stop doing that!”

“Now, what were we talking about?” he says, sauntering away as if I hadn’t even spoken.

I follow, scowling. “Mark’s missing body.”

“Ah, yes. That grisly business inside.” We walk to a stone wall, overlooking a well-kept garden and golf course. He leans on it, sighing. “Well, I’m sure I’m not the first to say that our host had a great deal of enemies as of late.” He glances back at me. “My prying eye might suspect that the people who worked for him might have reason to stab him in the back.”

“Chef and Benjamin?” I think back to the two men I had encountered before. “… Chef is a bit rough around the edges, but Benjamin seemed nothing but loyal to Mark. He seemed… quite upset at his passing.”

“Well, of course he would seem that way. We all know what an actor Mark was… is it truly such a stretch to think he may have hired someone of the same cut?”

“But what reason would Benjamin have to kill him?”

The Colonel turns to me, squinting one eye. His voice lowers conspiratorially. “Have you noticed how nervous the butler is? How distressed he becomes at the thought of his master’s wrath?”

I have. But I’m not prepared to reveal that yet. Instead I scribble on my (thankfully still dry) notepad.

“Besides…” the Colonel grunts and shakes his head. “God knows Mark’s a tough man to work for. I wouldn’t blame either of them if they wanted to off him.” I start to reply, but he looks down and finally seems to notice the green below us. “Oh! The old golf course! I-I’ll fetch my clubs.”

Before I can say anything, he’s off like a shot down the steps.

I mark him down as high on my list of suspects, and turn to greet Damien.

~~~

Damien meets me next to the fountain, a large, fluffy towel in his hand.

“There,” he says, pulling it around my shoulders. “There’s a chill today. Hopefully that strange storm won’t bring rain. Will you be alright?”

“It’s fine, Damien, thank you.”

He frowns at me in concern, and I look away, pulling the towel tighter around my shoulders. “Well, if you’re sure,” he says, not seeming convinced. “I was wondering if… well, I would like to speak with you for a moment.”

“Of course,” I say, following him to a bench somewhat sheltered from the wind.

We sit down, and Damien fusses a bit. “You should be inside,” he says.

I think to the outline in the parlor, and the thought of a corpse walking around like a person. “I’d really rather not be, if you don’t mind.”

He searches my face. “… Are you really all right?” he presses.

I sigh, lowering my head. “Oh, Damien.” I smile and shake my head. “I should be asking _you_ that.”

“I’m fine. I’m not…. Well, I haven’t really been much help today. I feel like I could be doing more.”

“Damien, you aren’t expected to be doing _anything_! You just lost your best friend, for goodness sakes.”

“My _best friend_ is right here!” He halts, and flushes deeply. “I— I’m sorry, that was… incredibly callous, I didn’t mean…”

“It’s okay.” My hand moves on its own, taking his and gripping it tightly. His fingers twitch, then close around mine.

“I don’t think you’re alright,” he says softly, looking down at our joined hands.

“It’s not that cold, really.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He looks up and stares me in the eye. “And you know it.”

I look away, the intensity of his gaze too much to handle. I take a deep breath. “I _am_ alright. And that… that’s what worries me.”

I catch his frown from the corner of my eye. “What do you mean?” he asks.

“I mean… I’m alright. I’m upset… I’m angry, but… fully functional.”

“I don’t see how that’s a bad thing.”

I glance at him. “You weren’t so forgiving of the Colonel.” His eyebrows knit, and I immediately regret my words. “I’m sorry. That was mean.”

An understanding smile flits across his face. “I was unreasonable with him. You’re right. But I know better now.”

“Of course.” I dip my head. “… I just feel… numb. Like it’s just another puzzle to solve.”

“I suspected as much.” My heart stops as he takes my chin, turning my face toward his. “I’m worried about you, Emma,” he murmurs, studying my face. “So much has been thrown at you today. You shouldn’t be having this much responsibility, especially after such a great shock.”

“I agreed to this, Damien.” I’m sure my face is bright red. My silly longings have such inappropriate timing, and his proximity is not helping! “I offered to help.”

“Not according to the butler.”

“You _asked around_?”

“He said you refused at first after our intrepid detective revealed the untimely fates of his previous partners. But then you accepted after some prompting.” He shakes his head, releasing my chin (and unknowingly allowing me to breathe again). “Emma, are you insane? Do you have a death wish?”

I scoff lightly. “Don’t tell me you believe that he’s _cursed_. He's… eccentric, and what happened to his partners is a tragedy, but I believe he knows what he’s doing.”

“That’s not what I mean.” He smooths back a particular lock of hair that seems to insist on curling onto his forehead. “I mean… Emma, if we think about this situation logically, we can only assume that the killer who struck down Mark was with us last night, in this very house. I’d stake my life on the innocence of the Colonel or yourself, but…” He sighs. “Can we really say the same about Abe?”

“Damien, you don’t really think…”

“Why not?” He turns to me. “I don’t know him. You certainly don’t know him.”

“But Mark did. Mark was his friend, and his…” I falter, a chill running through me. “His employer.”

_God knows Mark’s a tough man to work for._

“I didn’t want to alarm you,” Damien says with some remorse, noticing the look on my face. “I just… I want you to be more cautious.”

I look up at him. “And if it _isn’t_ Abe?”

“Then mayhaps our counting skills aren’t as good as we thought.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Elaborate, please.”

“You’re going to think this is silly, but… if it is indeed none of us, then perhaps in the shadows of this manor, unseen to any of us, lie hidden… a murderer.”

We barely acknowledge the clash of thunder. Our hands are still linked, the fact of which I’m reminded of when he lets go to rest his hand on my shoulder.

“I know you want to find the killer,” he says. “But you’re not invincible. You need to watch your back.”

I smile, resting my hand on his forearm. “Looks like someone’s already doing that.”

It takes a moment. Then Damien’s face brightens, and he chuckles softly. "I don’t know how much use I’ll be. I’m not exactly cut out for…”

He trails off as I place my hand on his cheek. The bristles of his beard tickle my palm, but I ignore it. “I think you are,” I say softly, but urgently, suddenly afraid of losing this opportunity. “I’m scared, Damien. I… I want you to be there for me. When things go wrong, when all hell breaks loose. I can’t do this on my own, I _need_ you to…”

Damien’s fingers close gently around my wrist. The hand on my shoulder slides down my arm to grasp my other hand.

He turns his face slightly to press his lips into my palm. He chuckles wryly.

“I’m a dunce, aren’t I?” he murmurs. “To think that it would take all this for me to realize…”

My heart is lodged in my throat. “Realize what?” I croak.

He looks up at me. Lets go of my hands and reaches up to cup my face. His fingers brush my cheekbones, and he smiles when my hand on his cheek drops to my lap in shock.

He leans forward, inching our faces together. I’ve forgotten to breathe, but I’m not sure I care all that much.

Our noses brush.

A gunshot rattles the windows of the manor, and we jerk back, wide-eyed.

“What was—”

“Inside,” I say tightly.

Damien grabs his cane, and we run to the door, my towel flying from my shoulders and settling forgotten on the bench.

~~~

We burst through the door to find the Colonel and the Detective in a standoff, their guns drawn. “I don’t know what you’re playing at, but you better lower your weapon, you murderer!” Abe is yelling.

“I bloody well wont, you’re the one that assaulted me! For all I know, you could be the murderer!” the Colonel retorts.

Thunder crashes, and I instinctively shove Damien behind me, carefully drawing my Derringer.

“What’s going on here?” I demand.

The two are facing each other, the Colonel with his back to me. Abe glances at me, notices the gun in my hand, and his eyes narrow. “Partner, this _psycho_ tried to shoot me!”

His opponent scoffs, waving his pistol erratically. “That’s a bold-faced lie! I was merely doing some light target practice!”

“ _Inside_?!” I say, at the same time as Benjamin, who has come in with a broom and a very grumpy face. I glance to the side and notice a broken vase on the floor, near the door where Damien and I had come in.

“Master’s prized vase,” Ben mumbles brokenheartedly, sweeping with a vengeance.

I turn my attention back to the standoff. “I know everyone’s on edge,” I say as calmly as possible. “But drawing guns on each other won’t solve anything.”

Abe scowls in disbelief. “Bailey, this man is a—!”

“We don’t know that.” I feel a light hand on my shoulder, and glance back to see Damien step up beside me. He shies away from my shooting arm a bit, but speaks with a strong, pleading tone. “Can’t we resolve this amicably, _without_ shots being fired? Colonel, why were you practicing _inside the house_?”

“I couldn’t very well go on the grounds, now, could I? With that bloody chef constantly underfoot!”

As he speaks, the subject matter steps into the room, a fierce growl on his lips and a ladle in his hand. He startles at the sight of the brandished pistols, but quickly regains confidence and marches up to the Colonel without fear. “I shoulda known that was you! Can’t do anything but sneak around behind everybody’s backs, can you, huh?! Just like old times!”

“I knew I should have left you in that pit,” the Colonel sneers. There’s something different about his attitude. He’s turned his attention from Abe to Chef, and his defensive posture has straightened, become proud and authoritative. “But you would’ve died there, wouldn’t you have? Poor little soldier boy couldn’t find his way out of his own tent.”

“I found my way in the world plenty well enough without you, _private_.”

That causes a shift. The Colonel’s gun lowers, but there’s a glint in his eye, and a dangerous, wild energy in his stance. My eyes meet with Abe’s across the room, and we nod silently, holstering our weapons and slowly closing in. The Colonel’s growl reverberates against the walls. He speaks so softly it’s almost hard to make out. “ _It’s ‘Colonel’, now._ ”

We move.

In one smooth motion, I knock the gun from the Colonel’s hand and the Detective grabs his other arm. I grab the opposite shoulder, and together Abe and I spin him into the wall with his face smushed against the wallpaper.

“Ow. OWW.” The Colonel groans.

Chef swears under his breath, his eyes as big as dinner plates. Damien and Ben have shrunk back, clutching their cane and broom like lifelines.

Abe and I hold the Colonel down with his arms behind his back. Truly, either one of us could hold him on our own, but I’d be lying if I didn’t say we didn’t feel a sense of satisfaction at our seamless teamwork.

“What was that for?” our captive whines.

Abe presses against the man’s arm, jostling his shoulder joint painfully. “First off, you tried to shoot me.”

“I did NOT—!”

“SECOND OFF, I can bet anything that your reason to do so was to get rid of me. Because I have evidence.”

The Colonel huffs, turning his head so just his cheek is pressed to the wall and not his nose. “Evidence of _what_.”

“Evidence…” Abe pauses for dramatic effect. At my glare, he continues. “… That proves _you’re_ the murderer!”

“That’s ridiculous!” the Colonel retorts vehemently.

“ _You’re_ ridiculous!”

“You’re _certain_ you have clear evidence?” Damien asks suspiciously. I don’t have to ask to know he still strongly suspects Abe as the culprit.

“Oh yeah. _Real_ certain. I’ve got enough to put you away for a long, _long_ time, buddy.” He jostles our captive again.

“There’s no way! I didn’t do it!” The Colonel begins struggling again in earnest, and we have a hard time holding him down. “How dare you!”

“Calm down, Colonel,” I say, concerned he’s going to hurt himself.

“No! I refuse! I refuse to be called a murderer _in my own home!_ ”

**_“Stop!”_ **

Everything freezes.

The front door has burst open, letting in a stream of unnaturally bright light.

At first, all I see is a silhouette. As my eyes adjust I begin to make out details.

A long, flowing black dress riddled with white stars.

A black hat with a feather in it, and a black lace veil.

Sharp cheekbones and a stately, elegant build.

Familiar eyes, but while I know eyes like that to be warm and kind, these are cold and cunning.

Almost immediately, I know who this is, although it’s been many years since I’ve seen her.

I know who it is, and I’m on my guard.

For after years on the run, Celine has come home.


	8. Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here in the present, or whatever we consider the "present" to be...

She’s standing at the mirror again. Waiting for her breath to create fog. Confused when it doesn’t happen, but quickly dismissing it.

She’s been doing this for years, but to her it’s always the first time.

Some things she remembers. She remembers her friend. The one who likes to make funny sounds. He always looks like he’s in pain, and she tries to help him. But he doesn’t like her. He’s afraid of her. He thinks she’s going to hurt him.

Maybe she got angry at him once. Maybe she did hurt him. She doesn’t remember. She hopes she apologized.

She tried to push him out once, but he wouldn’t go. He talks to her sometimes, but he never makes sense. She can’t hear him properly. That makes her angry. Sometimes when she’s angry, the house laughs and the rooms get dark and smoky.

He avoids her now. The house doesn’t like him, but he manages to use it to his advantage. She rarely sees him, but when she does, he always says the same thing.

She leaves the mirror. Bloody handprints are caked on the glass, always fresh. She coughs. Blood drips from her lips.

Her friend is standing in front of her now. He looks so tired. “Emma, please remember,” he pleads. His image flickers.

“Hello, friend.” She reaches out to pat his cheek but he flinches away.

For a split second he’s screaming. She’s crying. Then everything is normal again. He speaks again. “Stop it, please. You’re better than this, I know you are!”

“What am I stopping? I’ll stop, I promise. What am I stopping?” She tilts her head and her neck creaks. He looks sick. She steps forward and he steps back. A bloodstain darkens his vest. She’s worried. “You’re hurt, can I help you?”

“No, Emma, you’ve got to fight it—!”

“Fight what?” She reaches out and grabs him by his coat. **“Abe, what are we fighting?”** Smoke billows around them. Her hands are grasping his neck, inky strands tighten around his skin.

He lets out a strangled cry, scaring her. She lets go. He turns away and disappears.

She frowns. What happened? She was going to hug him. He looked so sad. Does he not like hugs?

_He’s afraid of me. He doesn’t understand._

He doesn’t understand that she wants to help him. He’s always so sick. He doesn’t even let her help.

_Ungrateful._

He was friends with _him_ , wasn’t he? He doesn’t deserve her help. He needs to be taught some manners. It’s rude to refuse help.

She should find him. Make him let her help. He’ll understand… eventually.

_That’s what friends are for, right?_


	9. The Early Years: Date

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the day...

“She’s cute, huh, Dames?”

Damien looked up from his textbook to raise a quizzical eyebrow. His roommate and best friend grinned at him from across the picnic bench. “Who are you talking about, Mark?” Damien asked tiredly. He wondered what poor girl Mark had strung along this time.

Mark leaned forward, momentarily abandoning his task of stuffing as many comic books inside one another as he could. “You _know_ who I’m talking about.” He glanced meaningfully to the side, toward where a pair of girls were sitting under a tree some distance away.

“… Elizabeth? You know she’s a bit overbearing for me, Mark.”

“No!” The man threw his hands up in exasperation. “The other one!”

Damien blinked. “Emma Bailey?”

“YES!” He slammed his hands down on the table. “Emma. Don’t you think she’s cute?”

Damien frowned. He turned slightly, trying to glance at the girl without being rude. He took note of her dark, carefully arranged yet youthful curled hair, the round glasses on her nose, her practical but flattering blouse and trousers, the glint of her teeth when she laughed, the rouge in her cheeks, the natural pout of her soft pink lips…

He turned to see Mark grinning widely. “What?” Damien asked in annoyance— and embarrassment.

“I guess that answers that question,” Mark said smugly.

“She’s an attractive young woman. I don’t see what that has to do with the pyramids of giza, Mark.”

“You should take her out for a soda.”

“Based on what grounds?! I glanced at her from ten yards away!”

“You spoke to her!”

“Once.”

“You’re in class together.”

“We sit across the room from each other.”

“That could change.”

“I’m not asking her out just because she’s pretty, Mark.”

His friend pouted, and returned to his comic books. “You’re no fun.”

Across the university common grounds, Emma tried to focus on her history textbook and not at the two men at the picnic table.

“You’re staring again, _cher_.”

She looked up at her roommate, who grinned at her from across a pile of textbooks and legal pads. “Nobody’s staring, Liz.”

“You were staring at those handsome men. I know you were.”

“I wasn’t _staring_ , I was… curious. They’re speaking very loudly.”

“Curious about _monsieur_ Damien?”

“No!”

“He was staring at you, too.”

“You’re imagining things.” Against her will, Emma’s eyes slid up again. To her slight disappointment, the dark-haired man wasn’t looking and instead appeared to be arguing with his companion.

“What if he asks you on a date?”

“He _won’t_. He doesn’t even know me.”

“You speak to him all the time!”

“He asked to borrow a pencil, and I complimented his vest. _Once_.”

“You’re such a wet blanket, Emma.”

“If wet blankets get better grades, all the better.”

Emma assumed she got the last word, as did Damien when Mark failed to continue pressing the matter.

However, that night, on opposite sides of the campus, the two pairs of roommates were again at war.

“I am _not_ enamored!” Damien and Emma insisted.

“But you could _try_ ,” Mark and Liz retorted.

“Why are you so insistent on this?” Damien and Emma groaned.

“You’re _lonely eggheads_ ,” Mark and Liz cried.

Pillows flew. The defendants argued and pleaded. The accusers persisted.

Then finally, Damien slammed his stack of books on the coffee table, and Emma shoved a pile of dishes into Liz’s arms. “FINE. If we go on one date, will you leave me alone about it?” they said in exasperation.

Mark and Liz blinked. Then grinned. “Of course,” they said.

And that was that. Oblivious of each other’s intentions, Emma and Damien each resolved to ask the other on a date the next morning.

What could possibly go wrong?

~~~

When Emma and Damien saw each other after class that morning, their eyes met. Somehow, in that moment, they each knew what the other was going to say.

“Miss Bailey,” Damien said.

“Mr. Crowe,” Emma replied.

They paused, fishing for the right words.

Damien cleared his throat and spoke first. “Miss Bailey, would you… soda?”

Emma raised her eyebrow. “Soda?”

“Er, soda. With me. Get soda with me?” His throat was becoming more hoarse as he spoke. A slight grin was making its way on Emma’s face, and his cheeks burned.

“That’s serendipitous,” she said. “I was about to ask you the same thing.”

“What, really?”

“Mmhmm. When should I be ready?”

“Er, five?”

“All right.”

“…Meet me at the fountain?”

“Sure.”

They went their separate ways with perplexed expressions. _What just happened?_ they thought.

That afternoon, Emma teased her hair in the mirror to a certain degree of presentability. Her roommate Liz caught her on the way out the door.

“ _Non, mais allô quoi?_ ” she said in disbelief. “Are you really going in _that_?”

Emma frowned and looked down at her attire. It was her standard, practical loafers, cotton breeches and a simple buttoned shirt. “What’s wrong with it?” she said defensively.

“ _Mon dieu_. You clueless girl.”

Before she could say a thing, Emma was shoved back into the bedroom and stripped of her clothes (and the last of her dignity).

“Wear this. No, this! It will bring out your eyes!”

No less than six separate dresses were thrown at her with little ceremony, despite her protests.

“Liz, I’m going to be late—!”

“No talking! Put it on!”

For four of the dresses, Liz made Emma take them off before they were even buttoned. “No good,” she said with dismay. “Try the next one.”

The fifth dress, a shimmering number with flowing skirts and a scooped neckline, was greeted with oos and ahhs, but Emma flat-out refused. “I’m going for soda, Liz, not a grand ball.”

And thus it was tossed aside.

The fifth dress was, in a word, rather plain, and it was Emma’s instead of Elizabeth’s (like all the others had been). “Of course _this_ one would be what you pick, Emma,” Liz said with some distaste.

Emma slipped into the well-loved cotton and buttoned it, sighing at the comforting feel. “I like this one,” she said simply.

Liz _harrumphed_. “Maybe with these pearls…. And those shoes…” She stepped back and shook her head. “ _Alors_ … It does clean up, doesn’t it?”

“Can I go now?”

“Yes, yes, go. _Bonne chance._ ”

~

Neither of them said much at first.

They were in a booth at a soda shop, within walking distance from the university. They sat across from each other, trying to look everywhere but at each other… but that didn’t keep them from stealing little glances. 

“So what are you majoring in?” Damien said suddenly, glancing at the pearls on Emma’s wrist. _Green dress, white polka dots. White collar and buttons. Pearls, probably her mother’s or grandmother’s. Not old-fashioned, but classy. She’s not trying to impress me._

“Law,” Emma replied, her eyes drifting to his hands folded on the table. _White dress shirt, blue sweater-vest. Khaki slacks. Fixed but loose hair. He wants to look nice, but not like he’s trying too hard._ “If I can get enough scholarships I’m going to try to get into law school.”

His eyebrows rose. “That’s ambitious of you.” At her frown, he hurried on. “It’s ambitious of anyone. My father’s a lawyer. It’s a tough road.”

“I’m prepared.” Emma folded her hands on the table, mirroring Damien’s stance. “There are a lot of people out there who need help. My being a woman doesn’t give me license to shirk my duty to those people.”

Normally, at this point in a date, Emma would receive a laugh, or at least a confused smile. She wasn’t expecting Damien’s face to light up like it did. Suddenly, he was leaning forward slightly, looking her in the eye. “That’s exactly why I’m going into politics. This world is so… corrupt. It needs people who can rise above that, who have convictions and ideals.” He leaned back, sighing softly. “… I suppose I’ve gotten a little disillusioned with our university. I expected there to be more people like us there.”

“The corruption doesn’t stop in politics,” Emma said. “People are still people.”

“But people can change.” He looked back up at her. “Politics… politics don’t change nearly as easily.”

“Then I’m glad we can rely on you for that.”

They both stopped, blinking at each other. The soft clinking of glasses and easy chatter of the other customers filled the space.

“Are you thinking what I’m thinking?” Emma said.

“That we don’t need to go on a forced date by our nosy roommates to have meaningful and constructive conversations, and that forcing a romantic relationship instead of letting it develop naturally and by the parties’ desires can do much more harm than good?”

“I think I like you, Damien Crowe.”

“And I, you, Emma Bailey.”

“….So your roommate made you do this, too?”

“Nuisances, aren’t they?”

“Perhaps they should meet.”

“Maybe. One day.”


	10. Naps

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Here in the present, or whatever we consider the "present" to be...

Darkiplier rarely slept, but it was common knowledge that when he did, it was suicide to disturb him.

Even if he fell asleep in a public place, completely in the way of everyone else, the other egos silently stepped around him. Inconvenience was always preferable to a sudden and painful death.

Eris, however, did not know this.

Which is why when she found Dark sitting on the couch in the common room, fast asleep, she didn’t turn around and take the long way to the kitchen. Instead, she walked right up and watched him.

He was fascinating. At a glance, he was simply sitting against the back of the couch, his arms crossed and his chin on his chest, his slow breath nearly inaudible. But as Eris watched, his aura splintered, flashes of him crying and writhing in pain flickering in and out.

Poor baby, she thought.

Bing walked past the doorway, then backtracked when he saw Eris. “Hey….hey Eris!” The android said in a harsh whisper. “What the heckety heck d’ya think you’re doing?”

She turned to look at him. “Just watchin’,” she whispered back. “He’s so pretty, aint he?”

Bing tried not to retch. “Sure, sure. Now _get outta there_!”

Eris frowned. “What’s the big—“

A cold hand closed around her wrist. Bing shrieked and darted away, glitching in his panic.

Eris looked down at Dark. He was staring up at her with an unblinking glare, his breath heavy and dangerous. His aura flickered erratically and its high-pitched ringing grew deafening. The grip on her wrist threatened the integrity of her bones.

For a moment, Eris was afraid.

 **“What are you doing,”** he growled.

Eris swallowed. “Watchin’,” she said in a small voice. “But if that bothers you then I’ll, uh, I’ll leave ya alone…”

She moved to leave, but the grip on her wrist tightened.

Was he going to kill her?

With a growl, Dark jerked her to his side, making her tumble onto the couch next to him. Eris froze, but all he did was wrap an arm securely around her waist and bury his face in her hair.

Was he…cuddling?

She relaxed, and curled up against his side. “Better?” she whispered.

Dark grunted in affirmation, his eyes closing. His breath evened out again, and even his aura settled into some semblance of peace.

Eris smiled. It seemed even demons need comfort occasionally.


	11. Recruiting the Androids

Highly saturated colors bleed through the fabric of reality. Two androids face off, one flanked by three perfect clones of himself, the other accompanied by one clone, which was much smaller than what would be useful (although he flexes impressively).

The first android grins cruelly.

“Bing. You just need to ask yourself one question. Do I feel lucky?” He twitches, and his voice lowers. “… Do ya?”

Google’s threatening grin falters as a high-pitched ringing begins to fill the room. All eyes turn to the front door as it opens. The color drains from the room as if by a black hole… and the source, the black hole itself, walks through the door.

Darkiplier rolls his neck leisurely. Clinging to his arm is a young strawberry-blonde woman, who has a too-wide smile on her mouth and a hatchet in her free hand.

Dark looks between Google and Bing, blinking like a cat. He sighs, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and turns his head slightly to address his companion. **“Eris, darling.”**

“Yes, Dark?” she answers adoringly.

**“Take care of the… _inferior_ one, won’t you?”**

His gaze directs toward Bing. Eris grins in understanding. Her fingers flex on her hatchet.

“W-w-what do you think you’re do-i-i-ing?” Google demands, glitching in his irritation.

Dark gestures toward the door. **“Come with me. I can help you with your primary objective. … _And_ your secondary objective.”**

Google pauses. He glances at Bing, seems to decide that the offer is more attractive than the prospect of spending more time with his annoying brother, and elects to follow Dark out the door. His clones follow in a line. The yellow one is last to go, and turns to grin evilly at Bing before leaving.

Eris and Bing are left alone in the room. She swings her hatchet as a slow pendulum, approaching him with slow, deliberate steps. “Wanna play a game?” she purrs.

The swing of her hips and playful, dangerous smile pierce Bing straight through the heart… or at least where his heart would be. “Totally,” he whispers, almost to himself. He clears his throat and straightens. “Shyah, dude. If it’s with a total _babe_ like you.” He lifts his sunglasses and winks at her.

Mini-Bing elbows Bing’s shin. “Brah. Don’t do it.”

“Why not, brah?”

“She gives me the creeps, brah.”

“Brah.”

Bing kicks the miniature out of the way and sidles closer to Eris. “Brah!” the tiny android cries in shock, but the two ignore him. Mini-Bing sighs in defeat and phases back into his original.

Bing slings his arm around Eris’s shoulders. He bites his lip, trying to be sexy, but ends up biting too far and looks like an idiot.

Eris stares up at him, her fingers twitching on her hatchet. Itching to drive the sharp blade through his sternum.

But…

He’s cute.

His hair is mussed up and despite his attempts at smoothness, he’s shaking. His lips tremble around that confident smile. She guesses that if he wasn’t wearing those stupid sunglasses, his pupils would be pinpricks.

He’s terrified of her. As he should be.

But he still has the gall to flirt with her?

She starts to laugh. Quietly at first, a soft, feminine lilting sound. Then it intensifies into deep guffaws. Bing starts to chuckle along with her nervously, wondering if she was planning to use that hatchet anytime soon.

She ducks out from under his arm and placed her hand on his chest. With a calculated shove, she knocks him off balance and sends him to the floor.

She stands over him, hatchet glinting in the late sunlight filtering through the windows. She laughs and laughs. Bing stops chuckling, realizing that he probably has nothing to laugh about.

His sunglasses have fallen to the floor.

Eris’s hatchet lifts.

And she stops.

Her crazed eyes meet with Bing’s. For a moment, they just look at each other. Her laughter is still spilling from her chest. But it’s different, somehow.

Uncertain.

A sharp ringing fills the room. Eris stops laughing abruptly.

**“Eris. Darling?”**

The hand holding the hatchet drops to her side. She looks up at Dark standing in the doorway, a disgusted-looking Google behind him.

Dark’s aura fills the room. Suffocating.

He smiles. It’s not a kind smile. **“Why is he still here, my love?”** he asks, gesturing toward Bing.

Eris swallows audibly. Unable to speak for a moment.

 **“We have other appointments, you remember, of course.”** He laughs gently, folding his hands behind his back. **“You were just toying with him, weren’t you? Drawing it out. Making him suffer. I like that.”** His voice drops. **“But we don’t have time for it. Finish him off.”**

She chews her lip. Doesn’t move.

Dark cracks his neck, and everyone flinches. A growl bites at the edge of his silky voice as he steps farther into the room. **“Eliminate him, Eris.”**

“No,” she whispers.

Dark’s aura screams. He smiles coldly. **_“What was that.”_**

His dangerous tone nearly forces Eris to retract her statement. But she looks down at Bing, brave, frightened, sweet, hilarious Bing, and she sets her jaw. Schools her face carefully as she’s seen Dark do.

And she looks up with doe-eyes and an innocent, shy smile.

“I want to keep him.”

Dark twitches. His rage fills him to the seams, spilling out into his erratic aura. **“Why,”** he purrs.

 _He’s funny and I like him_ , Eris almost says, but just in time realizes that would indicate an emotional attachment, sealing Bing’s doom. To curb Dark’s jealousy and to distance herself, she steps toward him, peeking up at him through her eyelashes, hunching her shoulders, shrinking into herself to make him look bigger. “He could be useful,” she says softly. Submissively.

He tilts his head and raises his hand to caress her cheek. **“And if his usefulness ends?”**

“Then I will personally rip out his circuit board and burn it.”

Bing lifts his head slightly. “Whoa, man. Don’t worry, I’ll be useful.” He gives them a single halfhearted thumbs-up, privately wondering what he could possibly do to appease this eldritch horror.

Dark makes a pleased sound, his hand cupping Eris’s cheek. **“Very well.”** His fingers tighten, his blunt nails digging painfully into her skin. **“Don’t let me catch you disobeying me again,”** he murmurs.

Eris whimpers in affirmation. He lets go, leaving her to wipe pinpricks of blood from quickly-forming bruises on her face. Bing slowly sits up and looks at her, expecting her to be crying or at least scared.

But she’s grinning from ear to ear.

“You hear that?” she says. She tucks her hatchet into her belt loop and offers him a hand. “You get to live.”

“Far out,” he says in confusion, letting her hoist him to his feet. “Lucky me?”

“Come on. We found this huge building we want to set up in. We can build you a charging port, or a bed if you like, and there’ll be lots and lots of room…”

She continues chattering as they follow Dark out of the room.

Google hangs back, glaring at Bing murderously. Bing grins, elbowing his brother in the ribs. “Yeah. I guess I _do_ feel lucky today.”

He jogs to catch up to Eris, rather pleased with himself.


	12. Thunder

The rain never bothered Eris. It was always fun to play in the puddles, or count how many worms were dried on the sidewalk afterward, or to run out and dance in the cool showers.

No, it wasn’t the rain that made Eris cower in the break room as the egos bustled around her.

Ed Edgar bumped into her. “Oh, ‘scuse me, missy, didn’t see you—“

“Where is Dark.”

He blinked, and backed away slowly as he saw the dangerous brightness in her blue-green eyes. “Uh, last I saw, the boss was headin’ to the suites.”

“Thank you.”

The air rippled around Eris as she stalked to the elevator, hugging herself tightly. The other egos made a path for her, pressing themselves into the walls.

Except Google Blue, who had to be pulled by one of his brothers.

Dark was reading in the living area of his suite, enjoying a rare moment of respite.

He closed his eyes and sighed as the door slammed open. **“I believe I asked you, multiple times, to kno—“**

He stopped as a small, shaking figure attached themselves to his arm.

He looked down at the strawberry-blonde next to him and raised an eyebrow.

Eris looked back up at him with wide eyes. “The storm,” she whispered.

 **“You love the rain,”** he said irritably.

“It’s not the—“ Thunder crashed and lightning illuminated the room. Eris shrieked, slightly muffled as she had pressed her face into Dark’s arm. “It’s not the rain,” she mumbled.

Dark paused, and turned his head to gaze out the window with a furrowed brow.

To be honest, he didn’t care for thunder much either. It reminded him of something… something he had spent many years trying to forget.

Carefully, he slid a bookmark between the pages and set the book down on a side table. Then he turned and pulled Eris to his chest, encasing her in his arms. She happily snuggled against him, pressing her cheek to his shoulder in relief.

“Thank you,” she whispered.

 **“I don’t care for storms either,”** he admitted. He gently shifted so he could look her in the eyes. **“Eris, I cannot change the weather for you.”**

“I know,” she sighed.

 **“But,”** he amended, taking her face in his hands, **“perhaps it will help if I distract you.”**


	13. Argument

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning: domestic abuse, general grossness**

Darkiplier growled. The shadows in the room deepened, choking out the light.

Just as Dark choked Eris. His hand tight around her throat, pressing her against the wall as her feet lifted off the ground. Her feet kicked weakly as she struggled to gasp for breath.

Bing stood in the doorway, staring at Dark’s back, petrified. Trying to work up the courage to rescue his friend, but frozen in place.

Why was Dark doing this? Weren’t he and Eris lovers? Bing may not be as smart as Google, but he knew that murderous intent was _not_ normal in most human romantic relationships.

Of course, applying the term _human_ to either of them was being extremely generous.

Still. Bing needed to help, to rescue Eris from a slow, painful death. He took a step forward, opening his mouth to yell at Dark.

 _This is how I die,_ he consented.

Then he stopped, a sharp, chilling sound reaching his sensitive audio processors.

Eris was laughing.

It was hard to hear, at first. Her limited air supply prevented her from laughing full-force. But she was certainly trying, her chest convulsing as her candy-pink fingernails dug into Dark’s wrist.

Dark’s aura flickered. Bing retreated back to the doorway, his courage gone, but stayed to watch, morbid curiosity keeping him from fleeing back to his charging port.

“You’re awful angry about somethin’ so darn little,” Eris was saying. She grinned up at her captor, hateful glee apparent on her face. The toe of her sneaker tapped his shin.

Dark’s growl deepened. **“I don’t consider traveling to an Altdim without permission and eliminating an ego on your own to be _little_ , dearest.”**

She stuck out her tongue between her bared teeth. “I was doin’ you a favor. The guy was useless.”

**“And harmless.”**

“Not so!” She braced one foot on Dark’s knee to hold herself up, nails still biting into his arm. “He had a spike in popularity. The people treated him as a joke but for a while they _loved_ him.”

His grip tightened. Eris let out a strangled gasp. **“You’ve done this one too many times, Eris,”** he snarled. **“I’m beginning to question your loyalty to the cause.”**

Eris fought to take enough breath to speak. “Y-you’re just foolin’ yourself,” she ground out finally. She struggled, both hands on his arm, squeezing and clawing at his cold skin. “You were plannin’ to do the same thing. I just did it instead of you.”

 **“Exactly.”** Dark leaned in close, lowering his voice to a dangerous purr. His breath stirring her unkempt bangs. **“I don’t like it when my authority is usurped, dear.”** His fingers dug into the skin of her neck. **“What do you say? Shall I strangle you here, and leave your body for the janitor? Or do you prefer a more _creative_ death?”**

Eris stopped struggling. She shook with the effort, but her lips stretched in a wide, unnatural grin. “You can’t kill me, Darky-poo. What are you playing at?”

His aura rippled. **“There are worse fates than death.”**

“Is that a threat or a promise?” she purred.

Their noses bumped. Dark’s posture was strange; somewhere during the argument it had shifted from simple fury to something more… possessive.

Bing fled on trembling legs just as the couple kissed. _I did not just see my boss strangle, threaten, flirt with, and then kiss my best friend. Nope. Googs has been messing with my wiring again and it was just a bad stream. Bedtime for Bingo, long day. Night-night._

Even though all three of them knew he had seen them, it was never discussed. The most he got was the next morning, when Eris flat-out refused his offer of a scarf to hide the dark bruises on her throat. She gave him a cheeky smile instead, and Dark’s disturbingly pleasant demeanor that day made Bing feel like vomiting despite his lack of a stomach.

Suffice to say, he learned to run the other way when Dark and Eris ever had an argument.


	14. Old Wounds

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Content warning: vomit, mention of injury**

The bedroom was held deep in shadows. The only light allowed came in the form of the full moon, seeping through the thin curtains and pooling on the floor.

Two figures huddled together in the deepest shadows of the room. The ashen-skinned man held a redheaded woman to his chest, attempting to calm her shaking.

A bucket sat nearby, waiting for the woman to rid herself of more of the thick, inky substance that sat in the bottom.

The man rubbed his cheek in her hair. **“It will be over soon.”**

She pressed herself closer to him. Her entire being felt like it was flaking, falling apart like a burnt newspaper. “When?” she whimpered.

He said nothing.

She pulled away to retch into the bucket yet again. He made no indication of disgust, merely held her tangled hair out of the way.

She trembled. Finished, and leaned back against him. “Why is this happening to me?”

**“You’re still adjusting to your new body. It will pass.”**

How easily lies slipped from his mouth.

She placed her hand on the center of his bare chest, letting her bleary eyes wander to the faded, white starburst scar just under his ribs.

She pressed her ear to his chest.

Instead of a heartbeat, she heard his aura, echoing around as if he had no organs or muscles or bones. As if he was just a hollow shell that housed something much more powerful than one could imagine. A dull ringing wormed its way into her head.

Before, the ringing had hurt and frightened her. Now it was comforting.

“Your body… how did he die?” she whispered, exhaustion making her daring.

Darkiplier’s jaw twitched. The ringing in his chest deepened briefly, then calmed.

 **“Gunshot,”** he said, surprising her with an answer.

She peeked up at him. “What about your neck?” she asked boldly.

 **“An accident.”** He looked down at her. A warning. She had reached his limit, and dared not press further.

“Oh.”

She nestled back against him, the rolling in her stomach finally seeming to tire of accosting her.

“Dark,” she said after a while.

 **“Mm.”** His fingers ran absentmindedly through her hair, gently working the tangled curls loose.

“Are we dead?”

He paused, his hand halting in its journey. His fingers moved to trace circles on her back. **“Not exactly,”** he mused. **“Our bodies are dead, perhaps.”**

“But you can do whatever you want with your body. You can be anything.”

He chuckled softly. **“Yes, dear.”**

“But you’re still affected by it? Your neck… ”

She halted, but realized her mistake too late. His fingers dug into her shoulder.

 **“Enough questions,”** he growled. The echo of his deep voice roared. **“I am limitless in this mortal realm. If there is something I want, there is nothing _anyone_ can do to stop me from getting it. Do you understand?”**

She nodded, too afraid to speak.

His grip loosened, and his hand slid down her arm to her bicep. He hugged her gently, shifting to press his lips to her forehead. **“If you’re feeling better, you’d best go to sleep now.”**

She nodded again, allowing him to pick her up and set her in bed.

He kissed her goodnight and pulled the covers to her chin, then disappeared.

She shivered and curled into herself.

Dark may not generate any body heat, but it always felt colder when he was gone.


	15. Who Killed Markiplier: A Bit of Madness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back at the mansion...

Celine and I have never been on the best of terms.

She’s always been… strange. The black sheep of the family, she’s never shown much interest in business, politics, or the legal system. Instead she pressed flowers in her journal, explored the woods that lined the city, and trespassed in abandoned houses to see what was there. While the police has been called on her multiple times, somehow, she’s always gotten herself out of trouble… something she and Mark attributed to her cleverness, but I suspect it has more to do with the soft heart of her brother.

“Celine,” I say quietly.

Her eyes immediately go to me. I know she recognizes me, but she speaks as if she doesn’t, addressing the rest of the group as if I hadn’t opened my mouth. “What are you all doing?” she demands, like an irritated schoolteacher walking in on an unruly class.

Abe is absolutely aghast, letting go of the Colonel to spin on Celine.

“Who the heck are you!” he bellows.

“Celine? Wh-what are you doing here?” the Colonel says in shock. His moment of violence seeming to have passed, I slowly let go so he can turn, keeping my hand on his shoulder.

“How the heck do you know her?!” Abe asks, his eyes darting accusingly between the Colonel and I.

Benjamin interrupts, addressing Celine with a polite but familiar tone. “Madame, I’m afraid you’ve come at a very inopportune time. Something… something dreadful has happened here.”

“I can see that,” she says harshly. Her piercing eyes fall on me, and I fight to keep an even expression. Celine is not a woman to show any kind of hesitance to. I’ve made that mistake in the past and I don’t intend to repeat it.

She seems to take note of my resolve, and her sneer softens somewhat, molding into a more genuine concern. “I’m glad I came before things got any worse.”

She has a very slight lilt to her accent, almost as if English is not her mother language and she’s spent years learning to disguise that fact. The lilt is almost identical to Damien’s, just more pronounced. Her brother had been much more enthusiastic in his language lessons.

“This is only the _tip_ of the iceberg!” Chef shouts, wedging himself between us. “And it’s a big iceberg.”

“It's… how can we put this delicately—” Benjamin chews his lip, going pale.

I decide to spare him the pain. “Mark is dead.”

There’s a sharp, collective intake of breath from the others in the room once I speak. Perhaps I should have been more sensitive, but the open shock on Celine’s face tells me that plain speaking was the best thing I could do to make her aware of the situation.

“What?” she whispers.

Chef nods solemnly. “Dead, like my hopes and dreams.”

Celine gives him a weird look.

“And he’s a flesh-eating zombie, too!” the man adds excitedly. I glare at him, opening my mouth to argue, but Celine beats me to it.

“Homo necrosis?” she says with genuine–but not disbelieving–surprise.

“Yes! Hence the guns!” The Colonel waves his pistol erratically.

I roll my eyes almost at the same time as Abe, who says, with more than a healthy dose of mockery, “That is not ‘hence the guns’!”

“Stop waving those bloody guns around!” Benjamin snaps.

The Chef waves his ladle in the butler’s face, but Celine holds her hands out placatingly. “Hold on, hold on. Tell me what happened. How did Mark…” She looks at each of us in turn. “… Die?”

“It was murder.”

Thunder crashes. We all turn to see Damien, who had separated himself from the group amid the chaos. His soft brown eyes are pained beyond comprehension. I ache as I realize what seeing his long-missing sister could be doing to him, especially after having just lost a man he had considered a brother.

“Damien, you don’t have to—” I whisper as he steps to stand beside me.

His hand on my shoulder halts my words. He glances at me as if to say, _It’s okay._

“Worse yet, the body is missing,” he continues to Celine. “Emma found it this morning.”

Celine looks at me, and I immediately feel the accusation rising up in her. Before she can speak, the hand on my shoulder tightens. “She’s been helping the Detective conduct an investigation,” Damien says, a bit forcefully. “She loved Mark as much… as much as any of us did. We’d be lost without her here.”

The woman’s eyes narrow. I straighten. The weight of Damien’s hand is not heavy at all, but seems to lift me up, like I’ve become light as air. Has his touch always been so reassuring? Had it always given me such strength?

“Show me where the body was found,” Celine finally says, her lips tight. “And don’t say that word anymore.”

The Chef raises his eyebrows. “What word? Murder?”

Thunder booms, and perhaps the strange situation is making me see things, but I could swear that I can see the bolt of lightning reflected clearly in Celine's eyes.

~~~

Celine examines the crime scene with a critical eye. She’s holding something in her hand— some kind of talisman— that she waves over the tape on the floor. The rest of us hang back, cautious and wary.

Damien’s fingers are entwined with mine. Our confession seems like it was so long ago, even though it hasn’t even been half of an hour. It’s as if it set off a switch in us. His hand is warm. His arm presses against my shoulder. If I shift my eyes slightly I can see the furrow of his brow and the twist of his lips in profile. He’s taller than I am, but I’d barely have to raise up on my tiptoes to reach—

I blink away the distraction. Time enough for that later.

Celine is staring at me.

She tucks the talisman into the neckline of her dress.

“Something is clearly going on here,” she says darkly, slowly meeting the eyes of each person around the room. “Something more than just a… an untimely death.”

The rest of us exchange uncomfortable glances. None of us truly want to admit it, but we agree. The disappearing body, the lightning storm, feeling as if things just aren’t quite… right.

Celine nods, and continues. “Mark’s death is a terrible thing indeed. But I fear that there are still forces much darker than anything we’ve seen here today.”

She leads us to the vacant poker table in the parlor, seeming to know the layout of this house intimately. I think back to the wedding, and how long she and Mark had been married. Even though she left a number of years ago, it seems she remembers this house as well as if she’d lived here all along.

I sit across from Celine, between Damien and the Colonel. The others scatter around the table, with Chef between Damien and Celine, Benjamin on her other side, and the Detective between Benjamin and the Colonel.

“I’m well-versed in the arcane arts,” Celine says, folding her hands on the table, “but if you, untrained and uninitiated, can summon lightning with a mere word, we’re all in far greater danger than anything we could ever hope to face alone. We’re going to need help to survive this.”

“And how do you suppose we do that?” Abe says impatiently. “Because of that freak storm, nobody can get in or out. We’d die anyway!”

Celine turns her sharp eyes to him. “That’s why we won’t be going anywhere,” she says with remarkable patience. “Everything we need is right here.”

Damien stiffens at my side. I risk a glance at him, and I notice his jaw has grown strained. Whatever it is that Celine is thinking, Damien is guessing it, and he doesn’t look happy.

“Celine… what are you proposing?” he asks softly.

She looks at me. “We need to speak with Mark.”

“I knew it!” Chef slams his fist on the table. “He’s a flesh-eating zombie!”

Celine rolls her eyes and I almost laugh. “No,” she says.

The Colonel perks up. “Maybe one of those smart zombies, _homeo sapio zombificus_!”

_Educated_. I make a mental note.

“No, no.” Celine sighs, but she doesn’t seem as exasperated with him as she was with Chef. “I need to commune with the dead.”

The Detective is immediately on the alert. “That… doesn’t sound like a good idea.”

“Well, it’s a good thing I don’t need your permission.”

Benjamin stifles a snicker. Abe scowls.

I fold my hands on the table and lean forward. “Celine, I’m not sure using the… arcane arts is wise in this situation. I think you of all people would understand that tampering with the supernatural in a ‘hotspot’ can be very dangerous.”

She looks at me, and smiles. It’s not a particularly kind smile. More of an _aw, how sad_ kind of smile. “Well, it’s nice to know that our beloved District Attorney actually has an opinion on this. Tell me, Miss Bailey, has your extensive legal expertise been of particular value during this debacle?”

Her tone is disarming, even more so than I remember her being capable of. The rest of the table turn their eyes toward me, and I have the sudden familiar sense of being in a courtroom.

Except this time, I’m not the lawyer.

I’m the defendant.

~~~

Because I know Celine, I recognize that she’s accusing me. Whether it’s simply of being out of my league or of actually killing Mark, I’m not sure, but it doesn’t really matter. The goal is to deflect the attention back to me. To turn the distrust on me.

And it’s working.

“What makes you think you’re qualified to be a detective anyway, missy?” Chef sneers. “You think reading big books and arguing with prissy boys in suits makes you able to crack a case yourself?”

I open my mouth to reply, but Benjamin speaks up too. “And if your wardrobe is any indication, keeping up appearances isn’t much of a motivation either.”

Abe is looking at me uncomfortably, chewing his lip. “I guess I might’ve been a bit… hasty. I didn’t even consider that you might not have much field experience… I’m sorry, Bailey. I shouldn’t have put this on you.”

I look at the Colonel expectantly.

To my surprise, he’s frowning, in… pity? As if he feels bad. Is he immune to Celine’s influence?

A warm hand covers mine, easing the chill from the storm. Damien’s. I hadn’t even realized that I was bracing my hands on the table, as if I was about to stand in protest. Damien doesn’t look at me, but his open display of support and pointed glare at his sister speaks volumes.

Celine suddenly smiles, appearing sheepish. “I’m sorry. I know today has been… hard. And I know you’re only trying to help, like any of us.”

Nods and apologetic murmurs drift around the table like spectres.

“That’s why I need your help.” Her voice is soothing, coaxing. _This is for the good of everybody. This is our only shot._ “We can figure out who killed Mark and what else is going on, once and for all. Together. Won’t you give me a chance?”

I’m nodding before I realize what I’m doing. Damien looks at me in alarm, but I’ve already agreed.

Celine grins. “Perfect. Come with me.”

She starts to stand, but Abe slams his hand on the table. “Hey, wait a minute!” he snaps. “We may have just met yesterday but Bailey and I have endured through thick and thin, and I’m not about to let you drag her off to her very likely death!” He jumps to his feet. “I won’t stand for it!”

“W-well I trust Celine with all my heart!” The Colonel stands as well. “I don’t see why anybody should doubt her!”

“What other choice do we have?” Benjamin says insistently. “If this is the only way to find out what happened to Master…”

“Gotta admit something’s weird about all this,” Chef mumbles.

Celine sighs. “If you want to stand watch outside, you may. But my work must not be interrupted.”

The Detective laughed. “Oh, I’ll keep watch, all right. I’ll keep watch on every single one of you… even myself.” His eye twitched. “…Especially myself.”

I follow Celine to the stairs, but Damien beats me to it. He slams a hand on the railing to stop his sister’s progress. “Celine, wait!”

She looks up at her brother. Her voice is soft when she speaks. “Yes, Damien?”

He searches her eyes, opening his mouth to speak but stammering. “I… are… are you alright?” Celine sighs and looks away but Damien moves to try to stay in her vision. “I know this… this news can’t be sitting well with you.”

She pushes past him and heads up the stairs. “I’m fine for now.”

“I… er…” He looks at me, fumbling, near-panic in his eyes. I shake my head wordlessly, and his jaw clenches. He turns and darts up the stairs after Celine, calling after her. “B-but all this talk of the occult, I thought you had given that up, and… and Mark’s dead! Wait!”

He catches her at the top of the stairs, his outstretched hand on her arm. “I just…” he swallows. “I didn’t think you would get mixed up in all of this. Not after… everything.”

Celine’s posture stiffens, and she wrenches her arm from his grasp. I’m standing on the landing, one foot on the next step. I look between the two of them silently, ready to jump the final few steps to rescue Damien if needed.

“There is more to this world than you could ever hope to imagine, Damien,” she snaps. “I just had my eyes open to a small portion of it.”

She leaves, heading down the hall and into a dark room that I could have sworn wasn’t there before. “Just be careful!” Damien calls after her, before sighing in defeat.

I move to follow Celine, but he catches my hand.

“Emma, wait,” he says softly.

I stop, and look at him.

He’s worrying his lip. “You be careful, too."im

His eyes flicker over my face, coming to rest more often than not on my mouth. I feel heat blooming up my neck, but I don’t step away. Instead, I step forward, knee-to-knee with him. Damien’s free hand comes up to rest on the back of my neck, pulling me closer automatically.

Here, alone with him at the top of the stairs, I don’t resist.

The kiss is brief and soft. We both know we can’t afford anything more than that.

Regardless, we pull away breathless and flushed, our eyes fluttering open wide.

I place my hand on his chest and feel his heart beating as hard as mine. He huffs a laugh, and I look up into his eyes, which have been clouded over with grief for so long I’m almost startled by the delight.

"We should do that again sometime,” he says.

For the first time in a long time, I feel myself grin. “Absolutely.”

That moment exists in a bubble of time, and too soon, far too soon, we must retreat to the real world. So we release, with lingering fingertips and longing looks. Each of us wishing we could stay in that moment forever, away from the tragedy and the heartache.

Celine is waiting for me in the dark room. I close the door behind me and sit across from her at the velvet-draped table. A crystal ball sits in the middle of the table, and I raise an eyebrow, looking up at her.

She’s mirroring my expression. “You’re close to Damien,” she says. It’s a statement, not a question.

I nod slowly. “And you’re not.”

She nods back, unoffended. “It’s been a long time since we’ve spoken,” she says quietly. “He… he doesn’t understand a lot of things about me. About… us.”

“Us, as in you and the Colonel?” She makes a startled sound, and I incline my head. “I’ve been watching how he looks at you. It wasn’t hard to deduce.”

In the privacy of this dark room and the company of a fellow woman, Celine turns transparent, her charm melting away and leaving a raw, trembling widow in its wake. I’m taken aback, but I sit still and let her speak. “Damien never figured it out,” she whispers. Her hands toy with the talisman from before, working it between her fingers on the table. It’s an upside-down star. “I think… I think he doesn’t want to.”

“Why did you leave?” I ask, as gently as I can muster. “Why didn’t you just approach Mark and ask for a divorce?”

“Mark was… he was so sweet. He would have given me anything. He would have given me the world. He tried to, he… he gave me books. He said I would like them.” She gives a little whimpering laugh. “I did. I did like them.”

“Books about the occult.”

“He _understood_ me.” She leans forward. “He… he wanted me to be happy.”

“So why the Colonel?”

Her laugh is short and humorless. “It was always William. From the beginning. But then he… he left. For the war. So I moved on. But then he came back, and… we… saw each other sometimes.”

I fold my hands on the table. I dread the answer to the question I’m about to ask. “Celine…” I bring my folded hands to my mouth, close my eyes, and take a deep breath. “… Why did you leave. Really.”

When I open my eyes, she’s sitting up straight, looking right at me. Her gaze has grown cold, but not cold like stone. Cold like a lake that is still not yet frozen yet, still wet and churning and angry, and could kill you if you dipped a toe in. “You know,” she says quietly. Dangerously. “You know why.”

I remember the crib in Mark’s bedroom. Pastel blue. Untouched. Carefully and lovingly maintained.

“Mark always wanted children,” she whispers. “But I didn’t. I didn’t want them to end up like…”

_Like their father._ I’m not sure why I know, or why it makes sense to me. But the look on Celine’s face and the feeling in my gut tells me that her years living in this house were not always happy.

She takes a breath. Calming herself. “… There was no way the baby was his. I had to get away. If he found out that it wasn’t his, that it was William’s, he'd… ”

My blood runs cold. “… Why are you telling me this?”

She pauses, as if wondering herself.

Then she smiles.

“Because it doesn’t matter anymore,” she says. “Mark is gone, and we can find out what happened. We can finally find out the true nature of this… _fascinating_ place.”

The true nature…?

“I didn’t quite understand before. But now that my eyes are open… there are dark forces surrounding this manor. And I feel that that’s been the case for a very long time.”

My eyes fall to the crystal ball. I’ve never subscribed to such things, but the room is unnaturally warm, and the flickering of the candles are almost hypnotizing…

I drift.

Voices and images flicker in and out of my head.

I see Celine, Damien, Mark, the Colonel, young and happy, together…

I see myself, next to Damien. We hold a small child between us. Damien is murmuring a lullaby.

I hear cutlery clattering, gentle conversation. I catch a whiff of coffee and chocolate. I feel safe and warm.

There’s blood. Someone is screaming. The voice sounds vaguely familiar, but I can’t quite place it… then I realize there’s more than one voice.

Another voice calls out. It’s aged, but strong, confident, wise. It overpowers the screams and leaves me feeling grounded. “It’s been years,” it drones. “I’m starting to run down, I’m afraid… ”

“Emma!”

I startle awake. Celine glares at me. “Well?” she demands as I look around in a daze. “What did you see?”

I shake my head. “I didn't…”

“You saw something! I know you did!”

“Something… some old man. I don’t remember, it’s all jumbled…”

“An _old man_.”

I look back at her. Her jaw is clenched. Her eyes are blazing. The force of her fury pushes me back in my chair.

Then I realized I _am_ being pushed, harder and harder against the back of my chair by some unseen force. It compresses my chest and makes it hard to breathe.

“This was our only shot,” Celine growls, rising to her feet. “This was our only chance to find out what truly happened. And all you have to show for it is… an _old man?!_ ”

My chair clatters to the ground as I’m slammed against the wall. _“You were supposed to help,”_ Celine cries. _“You were supposed to be the one who finally helped!”_

I can’t breathe. My toes brush the ground, scrambling in a panic as I’m pushed further and further against the wall. I can barely move my arm but I manage to shove my hand in my pocket and retrieve my Derringer.

Celine is sobbing. My vision blurs, making the colors in the room shift and warp. Her outline becomes fragmented. _**“WHY DOESN’T ANYONE LISTEN?”**_ she screams. The pounding in my head adds thrumming layers to her voice.

With tremendous effort, I raise my gun in both hands. I can’t breathe and I’m seeing double, but she isn’t that far away. It’s an easy shot.

Too easy.

I see her eyes widen just before I fire.


	16. Interim: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is where time gets fuzzy, and the perspective shifts...

I stopped writing.

My pen shook in my hand, and I quickly set it down to avoid getting splotches of ink on the paper.

_She really did shoot her._

My laptop _dinged_ cheerfully, and without a thought I reached out and closed it. I could answer that later.

I leaned back and ran my fingers through my hair… I had forgotten to gel it into a fauxhawk that morning so it was soft and fluffy. I’d considered just letting it grow out but that seemed like such a hassle….

Right, Emma.

She had shot Celine.

I leaned forward and tugged a piece of paper from my stack of notes. To be honest, there wasn’t a lot of information about the event that I didn’t already have. None of those who had been there had written much down about it, so most of what I had was second-and-third-hand, from news reports and gossip magazines.

I pulled out a fresh sheet of paper and started a summary from where I left off.

_The others found Emma, shaking on the ground, with Celine’s body slumped in a chair, a bullet wound straight through her heart._

_The house was oddly quiet as they removed the corpse. The storm outside was gone, freeing everyone to come and go as they please. Unsurprisingly, nobody was eager to return._

_The manor burned down mere days later. They all refused to comment._

_After Celine’s small funeral, the group went their separate ways._

_The Colonel—whose full name Emma found out to be William J. Barnum— turned himself in as Mark “Markiplier” Barnum’s murderer. Detective Abe Eckerman had the joyless task of taking him in, and at the same time turned in his badge._

_The Chef went back to culinary school, realizing that he could always refine his skills._

_Benjamin the Butler became Benjamin the Office Worker, having decided that he would finally be his own master._

_Emma and Damien… well, their story could be considered the most interesting out of everybody. For several months after the manor burned the two didn’t speak. Both were wracked with grief and guilt… each haunted by their own decisions._

_However, one day Damien showed up at Emma’s apartment with_

Clattering from the other room had me automatically shoving my extra notes and notebooks into my desk drawer. I yanked my laptop open, clicked back onto Ancestry.com and scattered some random, safe notes on the desk.

I leaned back to admire my handiwork.

_Good enough._

The apartment was quiet as I opened my bedroom door, but after a few seconds I heard the tell-tale creak of our gross old couch.

The couch faced the doorway to the hall. I walked the short distance and leaned against the frame, waiting.

Dakota Farz, local law student and one of my two best friends. Also my housemate. He had his elbows on his knees and his head in his hands, breathing heavily, like he was wearing an oxygen mask.

After what seemed like forever he looked up. “Hey, Liam.”

“Hey, man. Any luck?”

He shook his head wordlessly. Missing persons posters and legal documents stuck out of the folder on the coffee table in front of him. I crossed over to sit on the arm of the couch, picking up the folder.

_Have you seen this girl?_ Asked one paper in bold type. _Name: ANNA BAILEY. Age: 21. Last seen…_

I looked at the next page. It was a photocopy of a missing persons report. Of course Dakota would have photocopies… but the disorganized folder was unusual.

“Liam.”

I looked up.

Dakota was leaning back, his burly arms crossed over his chest. His eyebrow was raised at me. “Have you eaten at all today?”

Somehow the charm on my necklace had gotten between my teeth. I spat it out and paused to think.

Did I eat today? I’d been writing since that morning… “Uh. No.”

Dakota didn’t complain. He simply got up and wove through the furniture to get to the tiny kitchen, which was open to the living room. “Do we have any Korean left?”

“Think you had the rest of it already.”

“Right, right.”

I sat on the counter with the folder in my hands as Dakota dug through the fridge. “So did you find anything else about Anna’s aunt?” he said, frowning at a moldy hunk of cheese.

“Nuh-uh.” I started folding a blank sheet of paper into an origami frog.

He turned his frown to me. “You sure?”

“Look, Emma didn’t write anything down about the event before it happened, and a lot of documents are classified. There’s a reason they call it the ‘Manor Mystery’, y'know?”

“Well, they couldn’t have all died in a more convenient way…”

“They didn’t _all_ die,” I said, cautiously. “At least two eyewitnesses escaped, the butler and the chef. They… may have surviving descendants. I’ve been trying to find them,” I said quickly as Dakota’s eyes lit up with hope, as well as indignation that I hadn’t told him right away. “But they did everything they could to get off the grid. Whatever it was that happened… they don’t want anyone to find out. But I’ll keep looking, don’t worry.”

He seemed satisfied with my explanation, and turned back to the fridge.

We ended up eating cold fried chicken and waffles. Under the pretense of doing more research, I retreated to my room as soon as I finished the dishes.

My bedroom door felt rough against my back, even through the barrier of my shirt. Slowly, I slid to the floor and put my head in my hands.

_She’s fine. There’s no reason to worry. I know exactly where she is._

A compact mirror was heavy in my palm. I didn’t even remember taking it out of my pocket.

_No. That’s a last resort. Things are different, now._

I’d tell Dakota… eventually. It just wasn’t the right time.

I had time.

_For once_ , I had time.


	17. Bittersweet: Part 1

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> I tried to write down everything I could remember.

It had been six months since the manor burned.

Emma tried to keep busy. She resigned as District Attorney and closed down her law practice, instead choosing to get a job at the local bank. She was welcomed into the business and adjusted fairly quickly. Her coworkers were polite and friendly, and she liked that they didn’t get into her business.

She liked that nobody asked questions.

Privacy was a luxury, in those early days. It was difficult to walk down the street without being accosted by news reporters and journalists and paparazzi, all asking questions. Emma took to traveling in secret and only when absolutely necessary.

Eventually, most of the media grew bored. New exciting news drowned out the death of Markiplier and the burning of the manor, and eventually, the survivors were left mostly alone.

Now, six months later, things were quiet. The only person she ever heard from was Abe, through sporadic phone calls late at night. He had turned in his badge as a police detective, but only a month later had opened his own private investigation office. _“It’s different, being your own boss,”_ he had said one night. _“But it's… well, it’s a good different, y'know?”_

They didn’t talk about the manor. Occasionally he updated her on the statuses of the others— she assumed he did the same for them. Benjamin was having a hard time adjusting to his new office job, but evidently had made a lady friend. Chef was contentedly working at a small independent restaurant, after finishing three more weeks at culinary school. Service was mediocre but the food was good, Abe said.

The Colonel had been given a life sentence. Abe visited him when allowed, more for the sake of the others than anything. Evidently the Colonel hadn’t been causing any trouble, spending most of his time writing in notebooks and asking for more when they were full.

The one person Abe wouldn’t tell Emma about was Damien. “Call him and ask him yourself,” Abe urged. “I can promise you he’s not mad.”

Emma always came up with one excuse or another, and Abe would retreat.

However, one night, Emma had gotten ready for bed and was reading a book while sitting by the telephone. As always, she planned to wait for thirty minutes, and if Abe didn’t call she would go to bed.

This time, she had barely sat down before the phone rang. She picked it up, and offered a curious, “Hello, Abe?”

The voice on the other end was not Abe’s, but rather one she hadn’t heard in many months.

“Hello, Emma, it's… it’s Damien. Abe said you’d be available about this time.”

Emma’s hand froze to the receiver. Her greeting had been open, unguarded, used to the casual intimacy of her conversations with Abe. Now she was left raw, struck down by her best friend’s cautious voice.

She covered the mouthpiece of the receiver and cleared her throat, then put it back to her cheek. “Hello, Damien.”

“Hello.”

There was a long silence. Emma knew he hadn’t hung up; she could still hear him breathing on the other end. “…How are you?” she offered. Her voice was distant. Guarded.

“I’m well,” Damien responded automatically, then paused. She heard him grunt softly in frustration. His politely unattached attitude fell away. “No, actually, no, I’m not alright. I'm… I’m quite unwell, in fact.”

Judging by his tone, Emma could wager his illness was of the emotional sort rather than the physical. “I understand,” she said. A piece of her emotional shield fell away, revealing a sliver of genuine empathy.

“Emma.” Damien was pleading, suddenly. “Please, may I… may I see you?”

“S-see me?”

“Tomorrow. Please meet with me tomorrow. At a park, at a cafe, neutral ground, whatever you wish. Just… let me talk, let us talk, and then we never have to see each other again.”

Her heart stopped at the very idea. “Damien, I can't…”

“An hour, just give me one hour, and then— and then I’ll leave you alone.”

“Damien—!”

“Please, Emma. I… I don’t have anyone else.”

Those final words, offered barely above a whisper. The previous ones having rushed out like a burst dam.

Damien was hurting. Of course he was. Had anyone spoken to him since the manor? Had everyone been giving him space, giving him so much space he had no one left to grieve with?

How ironic that the one he turned to was his sister’s killer.

“Yes,” Emma choked, then cleared her throat again. The next day was Sunday and she had no plans. No excuse. “Yes, I’ll meet with you. Everman Park at 4:00, is that all right?”

“That's… that’s wonderful. Yes, that will do nicely.”

They fumbled with their goodbyes, each hesitant to hang up.

The minute she set the receiver down it rang again, and she snatched it back up. “Damien?” she croaked.

The cheerful voice on the other end was no longer her best friend. “I see that conversation went well,” Abe said.

“Did you set that up?”

“I told him to call you. That’s it. Anything else is out of my jurisdiction.”

Emma growled and Abe laughed. “I can’t believe you, Abe.”

His voice lost its joking manner. “And I can’t believe you, Bailey. I mean, six months? Really? I was starting to think I was his only friend.”

Her throat closed. “That’s not fair, Abe.”

“Not a single part of this is fair, kid. Not a single one.” His voice gentled, and there was the tell-tale creak of his old office chair. She could picture him leaning back, maybe pinching a cigar from the box on his desk. “Now I’m going to assume you’ve scheduled some kind of longer conversation considering this one was so short?”

For some reason, Emma felt a blush warm her cheeks. A flutter in her chest at the thought of seeing Damien again. Like some kind of… silly schoolgirl. “Tomorrow, at the park.”

“Sounds romantic.”

“Abe!”

“Alright, alright. I’ll give you guys some time. I get it.” But she could hear the grin in his voice and despite herself, she felt herself smiling as well.

She didn’t realize it, but she was humming as she got into bed that night.


	18. Liam's Log: October 1st

Anna left today. Dakota fussed as usual, and Anna laughed it off as usual. We helped carry her bags to the car— he tried again to convince her to let him go with her, but it was already decided. He has an internship and a demanding job. And they didn’t say so, but I know Anna wants him to be around for my sake. Make sure I’m eating and showering and breathing. They try to sneak around with it but I know what they’re up to. It’s always been that way and I stopped complaining a long time ago.

They made a show of kissing in front of me, just to gross me out. I teased right back and mimed snapping a photograph, which I guess they thought was funny. Dak said something like “Every night like we agreed?” and Anna smiled her big cute smile and said “As often as we can.”

I hate when she smiles like that. It’s too cute and too genuine. We’re both wrapped around her little finger and that gets her into trouble far too often. I start slacking, and I can’t afford to slack. Especially not now.

After that Dakota fussed some more about night safety and road safety and stranger danger. Anna patted his face reassuringly, smiling that smile again, and managed to convince him that she would be perfectly fine and would follow all of his advice and everything would be okay.

Miraculously, he was placated, and they kissed again, for real this time.

Eventually Anna pulled away from Dakota and held her arms out to me. I hugged her, maybe a bit too hard. It’s not like I’m never gonna see her again— we all always find each other eventually.

So why was I hugging her so tightly?

She laughed at me, of course— scolded me gently. “You’ll come and visit,” she said. Of course, obviously. We’d visit her.

We’ll visit her.

Dakota stood standing there for a while, watching her drive away. I didn't— I got in Dakota’s Prius as soon as Anna stopped waving behind her.

I had the aux cord plugged into my phone and Hamilton was playing by the time he got in the driver’s side. He shot me a look and I shrugged. “It’s what Anna would want.”

I could tell he wanted to argue, but he stopped. “Yeah.”

He’s been quiet ever since we got home. I’m trying not to bother him, but that also comes with not being able to comfort him.

Oh, well. That stopped being worthwhile a long time ago. He’ll get over it. Probably as soon as she calls him for their nightly chat.

I’ll yell something super inappropriate when that happens— that always makes Anna laugh and Dakota roll his eyes. Or glare at me. Either reaction is satisfactory.

I’m doubling my efforts on finding out more about Emma. There are too many coincidences for them to be just… coincidences.

There’s something else. Something more. This time… this time seems different.

I’m trying not to get my hopes up. But that’s hard when hope is all you have left.


	19. Voicemail #1: October 3rd

_[Female robot voice saying: “You have one unheard message. First unheard message.”_

_Then, a medium-range female voice with a slight southern accent._

_“Hey Dakota, it’s Anna. Sorry about our call getting cut off tonight! Service out here is soo spotty. But I was just telling you this house is soooo big! It took me forever just to find all the rooms… It’s kinda gross… but nothing that a little elbow grease won’t fix. I’m starting on that tomorrow…_

_I spent all yesterday exploring the grounds._ _There’s an old shack way out back, but it’s empty. I think maybe the gardener lived out there once? The papers say this house is from the 40s, but I think it’s older than that._

_I can’t wait to see what I find when I start cleaning. What secrets does this place hold??_

_…Well, I guess I’ll go now. I’m sorry about the service, babe. I’ll try to call from a gas station or something._

_Talk to you tomorrow, I hope. Love you. Bye.”_

_Female robot voice saying “End of message. To delete, press seven.”_

_A beep happens, and the audio ends.]_

Voice provided by the lovely [@jojored22](https://tmblr.co/m8LkSLKVU2XT5b-4nJrznHQ)!


	20. Liam's Log: October 8th

It’s been almost a week since we’ve gotten a call from Anna.

Dakota’s frustrated, but not that worried— Evidently the cell service is atrocious over at the manor, and they’re still able to communicate over wifi when Anna makes it to a coffee shop.

She’s doing fine apparently— working hard on cleaning the house and exploring the land. So far she’s discovered a miniature golf course, a life-sized outdoor chess set, and a swimming pool. She described the parlor in great detail, mentioning a huge fireplace and white-cloth-covered couches. Although she did find some scattered poker chips and a few playing cards… guess the former residents liked to party.

She still can’t Facetime. The wifi’s too bad, she says, not to mention the lack of privacy. The locals are nosy and don’t trust her.

Everytime I ask her about that she brushes it off. They’ll warm to her, she insists. Superstition isn’t as powerful as people think it is. They’ll start to like her soon.

I don’t have the heart to tell her how wrong she is.

I’ve been keeping busy as well, when Dakota and I aren’t huddled around his laptop.

In my research, what I’ve discovered is that Emma Bailey— Anna’s great-aunt— died in or near Markiplier Manor, and her body was never found. Having died along with her was the actor Markiplier, a woman named Celine (believed to be the sister to the mayor), Markiplier’s brother Col. William T. Barnum, and the mayor himself: Damien Crowe— although there are enough resulting reported sightings of him that he became somewhat of an urban legend. Two men, the butler and the chef, are believed to have escaped.

All of this according to reports, of course. Gossip articles, newspapers.

Propaganda and lies. As usual.

I know the truth, but only part of the truth— which would bring me back to square one if it weren’t for one variable.

Anna.

Precious, curious, determined Anna.

I may have the resources but she has the intuition. I know she’ll find something. She has to.

I’m starting to run out of time.


	21. Voicemail #2: October 12th

_[Female robot voice saying: “You have one unheard message. First unheard message.”_

_Then, a medium-range female voice with a slight southern accent.  
_

_“ ****Hey Dakota, it’s ya boi! …Anna… I can’t believe we got cut off again. I swear, I’ve gotta get a phone guy up here or something… I’ve been trying to get help with like, wifi and stuff, but the locals here are so superstitious nobody will come! It’s ridiculous… I still have to go to that little coffee shop to get any work done. Kara is super accommodating though, so she’s giving me articles that don’t need a lot of research or anything to write, so I can write them almost entirely without internet. She’s even letting me write about the manor! Oh, speaking of, Liam needs to send me what he’s been finding about Emma. Seriously, it’s important. I think I’m really onto something here.……(Frustrated sigh) This headache just won’t quit. I’m gonna take an aspirin and go to bed or something. G’night, Dakota. Love you.”  
_

_Female robot voice saying “End of message. To delete, press seven.”_

_A beep happens, and the audio ends.]_

_Voice provided by the lovely[@jojored22](https://tmblr.co/m8LkSLKVU2XT5b-4nJrznHQ)!_


	22. Interim: Part 2

Anna has always had this weird draw to her dead great-aunt.

It started out innocently enough— curiosity about the Manor Mystery, a cold case way back from the 50s. Her great-aunt, Emma Bailey, had died in that case, according to Anna’s dad, as well as the celebrity Markiplier, the then-current mayor Damien Crowe, and some other less-essential persons.

Anna was a bit of a history nut, even from childhood, so it was no wonder that such a mystery would grab her attention. Her parents humored her for a while, and then later when Dakota and I came along we did too. It seemed fairly harmless, and otherwise she was a fairly practical, mild person, so we didn’t think much of it.

Then, when she and Dakota started dating, I thought maybe she would be over it. That seemed to be the case for about a year or so.

Then, one day, out of the blue, as the three of us sat around a table at our local coffee shop, she spoke up.

“So I bought the manor.”

Dakota and I exchanged glances, racking our brains to see if we remember what the heck she’s talking about.

She smiled brightly and stirred her Cafe Mocha. “It’s okay, I didn’t tell y’all about it before. I wanted it to be a surprise. It’s the Markiplier Manor, from the Manor Mystery!”

A look of dawning horror began to grow on Dakota’s face and I spoke up before he could exclaim in protest. “Wow, that’s crazy! How did you even find it!”

“Well~” She twirled a lock of her curly, strawberry-blonde hair around her finger, biting her lip. Dakota instantly melted and I released a breath. Crisis averted by a cute girlfriend. “I may or may not have been digging around,” she said. “And I managed to find the exact location. And it was for sale!”

“How much?” Dakota said, remarkably calmly for someone whose girlfriend appears to have gone off the deep end.

Anna named a figure, and I whistled. “That’s _cheap_.” I risked a glance at Dakota. “…Right?”

He shook his head, at a loss. “ _Insanely_ cheap.” He eyed Anna. “…Why was it so cheap?”

She smiled, a bit sheepishly. “Well, you know. Rumors.”

“Of?”

“It’s _so_ haunted, isn’t it,” I whispered, my eyes widening dramatically.

Anna grinned, and Dakota groaned.

Anna and I high-fived. “That’s so awesome,” I laughed.

Dakota glared at me. “Don’t encourage her!”

“It’s just a house, babe,” his girlfriend said soothingly, reaching across the table to take his hand. He instinctively gripped it and she rubbed her thumb over his knuckles, tilting her head imploringly.

His brow was furrowed, but the hard lines in his face softened. “What do you plan on doing with the house, now that you’ve evidently bought it?”

“Explore! Investigate! Don’t you want to know what _really_ happened to Emma and Markiplier and the others?”

“They died,” Dakota insisted. “They all died in a freak accident.”

“Actually,” I said slowly. “They… didn’t find any bodies. That was just the police report covering it up.”

Dakota gave me his best _I can’t believe you’ve bought into this_ glare while Anna looked at me, impressed. “I didn’t know you looked into this kind of stuff,” she said.

I shrugged, smiling disarmingly. “What can I say? I love a good conspiracy.”

She laughed at that—a bright, delighted sound—and leaned over to kiss me on the cheek. “And we love our nerdy emo son.”

“It’s not emo, that’s an entirely different subculture—“

“Punk?”

“Flattering, but I’m not super into anarchy…”

“Goth?”

I opened my mouth, then closed it. _What do you call all black, mostly t-shirts and skinny jeans, a few chains and minimalist jewelry, sometimes but not always accented by an obnoxiously loud pattern and/or color?_ “Probably not goth, either.”

Dakota leaned back, still holding Anna’s hand, and sipped his coffee casually. “Let’s just call it ‘Brendon Urie Style’ and be done with it.”

“That man is an inspiration,” I said over Anna’s laughter. “So I’ll take that as the highest of compliments.”

“Good. He has good music.”

Anna stopped laughing and stared at her boyfriend agape. “ _You_ listen to Panic! At the Disco?”

“What? I can’t be a stick-in-the-mud _and_ like popular music? You expect too much.”

Anna and I exchanged glances, and simultaneously imagined a future of the most obnoxious, concentrated collection of references to P!ATD songs that the world had ever seen.

It was glorious.

“Anyway, back to what we were actually talking about,” Dakota said, effectively interrupting Anna’s and my temporary psychic link. “So you plan to just… explore and investigate the manor? For fun?”

“Well, it’s kind of remote,” she said slowly. “And it’s in the next city over, so… it wouldn’t be practical to drive back and forth every day.”

I could tell that Dakota knew where Anna was going with this, and didn’t like it at all. For once, I didn’t intervene, choosing to let this play out.

“Anna, you know I love you, right?” Dakota said slowly.

“Yes, of course!”

“You know I would give you the world if I could, right?”

“I don’t think I would trust myself with a dictatorship, but I recognize and appreciate the sentiment!”

He smirked a little at that, and I marveled at their weird shared sense of humor. “So with all that in mind, love of my life…” Dakota leaned forward and lowered his voice. “If you’re planning to live in that house let me be the first to say I love and support you, but that sounds like a dangerous, risky, _kind of incredibly stupid idea_.”

“Aw Dak, that’s not fair,” I protested, but Anna waved my words off.

“No, he’s right,” she said, in a tone of voice I recognized but hadn’t really heard come from her mouth before. “I’m not smart enough to take on something like that. I’ll probably get kidnapped on the first night.”

We were both taken aback. Anna had been angry before, even sarcastic, but this…this was _bitter_.

Dakota looked hurt. “You know that’s not what I meant,” he said softly.

That seemed to shift her attitude. “I know, babe, I just…”

Dakota worried his lip, then spoke up. “What if… I go with you?”

I nearly choked on my iced frappe.

From the get-go, the two had been incredibly, _painfully_ clear that they weren’t going to live together until they legit tied the knot. It was something really important to both of them and they’d talked a lot about it. That Dakota would even suggest that they move in together… he must have been _really_ worried.

Anna blinked at him, then frowned. “No.”

“It’s probably pretty big, we wouldn’t even have to see each other if we didn’t—“

“It’s not that, Dak, I just…” she sighed. “I… I need this, you know? I need to… be on my own. For once.”

Dakota looked like he wanted to argue more, but I understood instantly. Anna had grown up in this little city and never lived anywhere else. Even though she’d had her own house for a while… I knew what it was like to feel stifled. Trapped.

Dakota may have disagreed, but he bit his tongue. Maybe literally, judging by the look on his face.

“We’ll visit her,” I said. “Maybe we can take a weekend trip or something.”

He looked at me. He still didn’t say anything, but appeared to be relatively pacified.

“And we can facetime whenever you want,” Anna added.

“Alright, alright.” Dakota took a deep breath and leaned his elbows on the table. “… I still don’t think this is a good idea, but… if this is something you really want to do, Anna, and you think you can do it safely, then… I’m not going to try to stop you.”

Her answering smile lit up the whole cafe, and Dakota immediately relaxed.

I didn’t need any convincing… I had been on board from the get-go. I was excited for her to have this opportunity, and Dakota was just a worry-wart. I wasn’t going to try to keep her from exploring her past and learning new things about herself. I wasn’t going to take that away from her.

Although these days… sometimes I wish I had.


	23. Liam's Log: October 17th

Anna’s stopped contacting us.

I’m trying to tell Dakota that there’s nothing to worry about, and just to wait a bit, that she’ll get in contact with us soon. But he keeps calling and texting and messaging, almost obsessively.

In any other circumstance, I’d probably tease and/or berate him about it. Overprotective much? Stop being a clingy boyfriend. Give her space. This is what she wanted.

But I don’t. He’s worried, and for good reason.

This isn’t like her.

No matter how independent she wants to be, Anna would never intentionally make us worried sick about her.

I remember one time she was out at a friend’s house for a party, and stayed too late and had to stay over. She called us twice: once to let us know where she was, and once to say goodnight.

And again, when she was planning to go to some work formal, but couldn’t because she was sick, she texted Dakota to let him know, even though he wasn’t even going. She just wanted him to know what was going on.

We’ve never asked her to do this. Dakota has always respected and encouraged her autonomy, and he may check up on her, but he never demands that she check in. If they’re busy, they could go a day or so without even texting, and then pick right back up when they’re free again.

But two weeks and nothing?

I tell him that she’s fine, that her wi-fi is bad, that her cell service is bad, that she’s safe and she has people around her who can help her if she’s in trouble.

I’m lying through my teeth and we both know it. Dakota hasn’t challenged me yet, but he wants to, I can tell.

To make matters worse, he’s starting to get suspicious.

This isn’t the first time it’s happened. Most of the time I’m able to play it off. Nerves, lack of sleep, not eating well. I can give a million excuses for my behavior.

But there comes a point when he stops buying it.

It’s happened faster than normal this time— although these are slightly unique circumstances. It’s easy enough to deal with him reading my journals or finding my “collection”. Short-term memory wipe, blame a fall, a concussion, and low iron. Make dinner and coddle him a bit, and I’m back to my normal eccentric self and he’s back to rolling his eyes.

But gradual suspicion is different. You can’t fix that with a short-term memory wipe, because it just comes back. It’s like a weed— it won’t die until you pull it up by its roots, and I’m not willing to do that…yet.

It’s not fair to him, or Anna, for me to leave again.

But if things go south before I find what I’m looking for, I may have to.

Here’s hoping I’m not forced to resort to that.


	24. Voicemail #3: October 21st

[ _Female robot voice saying: “You have one unheard message. First unheard message.”_

_Then, a medium-range female voice with a slight southern accent._

_“Dakota, are you even getting these? …I don’t know why I even bother calling. The wifi stopped working at the cafe and the staff refuses to let me try to fix it, despite the fact that they have no idea what they’re doing._

_I’m starting to sleepwalk again, too. I set up in one of the upstairs bedrooms, and Sunday I woke up in the parlor. Can you believe? I haven’t done that since I was a kid… Doesn’t help that I don’t sleep much anyway. It’s…it gets creepy here, at night, Koda. It didn’t really bother me at first but something here seems….weird. Noises and… shadows._

_I don’t know. It’s probably nothing._

_…..I keep getting headaches, too. The aspirin stopped working… I stopped even trying.”_

_A door slams in the background and Anna gasps._

_“I— I gotta go. Talk to you later.”_

_Female robot voice saying “End of message. To delete this message, press seven.”_

_A beep happens, and the audio ends.]_

Voice once again provided by the lovely [@jojored22](https://tmblr.co/m8LkSLKVU2XT5b-4nJrznHQ)!!


	25. Liam's Log: October 30th

He found my journals. 

I was stupid and left my door open and he found them. He recognized my handwriting.

Cognitive recalibration paired with a basic short-term amnesiac. He’s on the couch. My door is closed and my journals are put away. When he wakes up, I’ll feed him the story and he’ll buy it. It’ll be fine.

It’s routine. It’s normal, I’ve done this before.

Why are my hands shaking so bad?

I have to sacrifice something for it to work. I have to tell him something, something about me.

I usually tell him something harmless. My favorite color, the name of my first pet.

It’s been too long. We know each other too well. Nothing left is harmless.

Hurry up, Anna.


	26. Voicemail #4: October 30th

_[Female robot voice saying: “You have one unheard message. First unheard message.”_

_Then, a medium-range female voice with a slight southern accent._

_“ ****Hey… you're… probably not even there, I… sometimes I wonder if you’ve ever even existed. I know that’s stupid, but… what I wouldn’t give to hear your voice again. I can’t find your photo in my wallet… I think I lost it. I can barely remember what you look like. That’s bad, isn’t it…?… I just want to sleep… Emma talks to me sometimes… She says… if I just let her in, I can sleep… but I can’t figure out where she is. Sometimes, I think she’s in the parlor… sometimes she’s in the upstairs bedroom. She’s so nice… I wish I could find her._

_I miss you. I don’t remember your name but… I think I miss you a lot._

_Tell Liam I said hi.”  
_

_Female robot voice saying “End of message. To delete this message, press seven.”_

_A beep happens, and the audio ends.]_

Voice once again provided by the beautiful [@jojored22](https://tmblr.co/m8LkSLKVU2XT5b-4nJrznHQ)!!


	27. Dakota Found Them

_This wasn't how it was meant to go._


	28. Child

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Back in the "present"...

“Hey Dark?”

**“Hm?”**

“Do you like kids?”

What a silly question, he could respond. Of course he doesn’t like children. He doesn’t like anybody.

But the tone in Eris’s voice makes him pause.

He looks down at her, their fingers intertwined. Her eyes are fixed on a group of children playing soccer in a field nearby. Their shadows dance along the ground, long and stark in the waning sunlight.

The two have just returned from an “outing”, and in the joyous rush of a successful hunt Eris requested a walk in the park. They’ve paused to sit on a bench in the private shadows of a large tree.

Eris is cuddled up against him. In a good mood, he allows it.

“Dark?” she presses.

He hums in acknowledgement. **“Children can be…”**

Nuisances, he’s about to say. Annoyances. Necessary but something to avoid.

But for some reason, he stops. Is frozen in his tracks as a swell fills his chest.

**_A child._ **

**_My child._ **

**“They are… necessary,”** he begins. He clears his throat to disguise the strain in his voice.

Eris’s eyes widen, but she quickly looks down.

Dark frowns.

**_Spawn. Offspring. Infant. Minor._ **

**_Descendant._ **

**“I have no opinion,”** he forces out.

Eris glances up at him, looking through her long, pale eyelashes. “You sure?” she offers. Her voice low and coaxing.

Attempting to manipulate him. His shoulders relax and he almost grins.

**“Yes, darling. I’m sure.”**

He isn’t upset. Rather, he is…perplexed.

Child. Why does that word make him feel… something?

**_Child. Daughter. Son._ **

**_My son._ **

“I think I like children.” Eris shifts, laying her head on his shoulder.

**“Is that so.”**

“Mmhm.” She grins up at him. “Tiny demons wreaking havoc. Doesn’t that sound fun?”

He raises an amused eyebrow but doesn’t respond, and she doesn’t expect him to.

She rattles on about other things and he listens lazily.

Still, the word rolls around and around in his empty shell of a body. Were he paying better attention he might be disturbed by the things it whispered.

**_Child._ **

**_My child._ **

**_My offspring._ **

**_My descendant._ **

**_My legacy._ **

**_My child._ **

**_My son._ **

**_my son_ **

**_my son_ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_._ **

**_Our son._ **


	29. Interim: Part 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Things are falling into place.

The room is too bright.

Dakota cracks his eyes open, then immediately closes them again, a pained groan biting past his teeth.

“Hey, man. Welcome back to the land of the living.”

The brightness lessens, and he opens his eyes again, attempting to find the source of the cheerful voice.

Liam, his roommate, is sitting on the arm of the couch at his feet. There’s a rubik’s cube in his hands, which he is solving rapidly without looking at it. He’s chewing on his star-shaped necklace.

A familiar scenario, except waking up on the couch with a headache is not typical.

Liam gives him a gap-toothed grin at his questioning look, spitting out the necklace. Despite the smile, however, his dark eyes are shadowed with concern. “You fell. Hit your head. Did you forget to take your iron again?”

“My… iron?” Dakota shifts, trying to sit up.

“You can’t keep forgetting that, Dak.” Liam drops to his feet and sets the completed cube on the coffee table. “I mean, I know you try to eat steak and stuff pretty often, but a deficiency isn’t gonna let ya—”

“I didn’t fall.”

Dakota raises his hand to feel the back of his head. It seems a tender lump quickly formed.

_If I fainted, it’s highly unlikely that I would have fallen backward._

He looks up at Liam, who’s wearing an expression that, at a glance, could be interpreted as barely-restrained concern.

But Dakota knows Liam, and he knows when he’s lying.

“What happened, Li?”

The boy’s face is unreadable. He opens his mouth to speak, but closes it again. He seems pensive. Dakota starts to speak again but Liam interrupts him. “I'm… I was going to tell you something, actually. It's… well, it’s something I probably should have told you already.”

Dakota pauses, slowly sitting up and leaning against the back of the couch.

His head is pounding.

… Yeah, that sounds right. Liam was going to tell him something. “What is it, then?”

Liam blows a puff of air from his cheeks. “I… I really appreciate that you, like. Give me privacy and stuff. That means a lot to me, y'know?”

Dakota raises an eyebrow. “Uh, sure.”

“Well, I just… I’ve been pretty unfair to you. So… as thanks for, y'know, taking me in and stuff, I thought I’d tell you something about me. Just so we're… even.”

“Dude, you don’t have to—”

“Just— just let me? Please?”

Dakota shakes his head at Liam’s puppy-dog eyes. “Alright, yeah. Go on.”

Liam rubs his hands together nervously, then shoves them in his pockets. “I wanted… I wanted to tell you my name. My real, full name.”

It’s hard to figure out why that’s the thing Liam wants to share with him, but he doesn’t want to ruin this moment. After all, it seems important to him. So Dakota nods.

“Go ahead.”

“My name is…”

Liam bites his lips together, staring at the ground.

“My name is William.”

He lifts his head, and there’s something in his eyes Dakota has never quite seen before. For just a moment, he seems… much, much older.

“William J. Barnum, Jr.”


	30. Voicemail #5: October 31st

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> **Warning: Creepy audio. No jumpscares, but disturbing.**

_[Female robot voice saying “You have one unheard message. First unheard me-”_

_The audio glitches out, then falls into a deep, groaning static._

_A distorted ringing fades in, along with static. Anna’s voice comes through, but it sounds far away and echoey. She sounds lifeless._

_“Koda… I can’t do this anymore. I can’t. I’m so sorry. Goodbye.”_

_There’s brief static, and then a dial tone._

_Anna abruptly starts speaking again, and the sound is clear and she sounds cheerful, as if nothing happened._

_“Hey Dakota! I’ll be coming home soon. I really didn’t find anything in the house, but I’d like some help moving out again. We can make a party of it! Oh, and make sure you bring Liam too. I think he’d love this place. See you soon! I love you!”_

_After Anna is done, a deep, slowed robot voice says “Message deleted.”]_

  
Voice once again provided by the lovely @[jojored22](https://soundcloud.com/jojored22)!!


	31. Anna Drowned




	32. Eris

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And thus marks the end of the Shot in the Dark Halloween Special… with the beginning of something new.


	33. Bittersweet: Part 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In happier times...

Damien waited.

It’s not that he wasn’t capable of taking the initiative— far from it. He had been the one to call Emma, after all.

He was just used to waiting.

He had waited for a lot of things in his life.

Right this moment, however, he waited for Emma. He waited for her to join him at the park, at 4:00 on Sunday afternoon. At any other time, he may have been pacing. Impatient. Pulling at the cuffs of his sleeves, adjusting his bowtie.

But he sat quietly on the bench, in the private shade of a large tree. His leg bounced slightly. He fiddled with an envelope in his hands.

Still, he waited.

A taxi pulled up to the park’s gate, which struck him as odd— normally, Emma drove herself. Both to save cash and also for her own safety, providing an easy way out. So naturally he assumed it wasn’t her.

But she was the one who stepped out of the taxi, and he stood out of habit. Immediately he sat down again, realizing his foolishness. She wouldn’t arrive at the bench for several minutes yet.

So instead, he observed.

From this distance he could only get an idea of what she wore— cuffed dress pants, a loose, collared blouse tucked into her waistband. Her hair was longer.

He wondered if she did that on purpose, or if she just didn’t care anymore.

His hand drifted to his own dark locks, recalling the recent haircut he’d had. It had been the first time in a while he had ventured to his usual barber. There were no incidents— merely a friendly “Welcome back” and business as usual.

The event didn’t fail to leave his knees shaking, however. As did most of his outings.

“Damien?”

Now his knees shook for a different reason.

He leapt to his feet, nearly crushing the envelope in his hands as he came face-to-face with Emma.

A faint smile crossed her red-painted lips. “You’re thinking again.”

“It’s, it’s a habit, I’m afraid,” he replied, stumbling over his attempt at humor.

Her smile widened and his heart lurched.

“Would you sit?” he had the presence of mind to offer, and she did, setting her handbag down. She didn’t set it between them, but to her other side, near the armrest.

Gingerly, he lowered himself onto the bench beside her.

For a while, neither spoke. They just listened to the rustling of the leaves and the shouts of distant children.

Then Emma’s voice broke the silence. “What do you do now?” she said softly.

It took him a moment to realize what she was talking about. “Oh. I’m assistant manager at the Rayburn Retirement Home.”

“Humanitarian work?”

“Better than politics.”

Emma smiled again. His stomach did a flip and his fingers tightened on the envelope. Her green eyes drifted, noting the white paper in his hands.

He felt his face grow warm at her questioning look. “Oh. Um. This is… for later.”

A well-sculpted eyebrow rose. He turned away, tucking the envelope between his thigh and the bench. “Later. Right now, tell me… tell about what you’ve been doing. It’s been so long.”

Emma frowned her concern, but conceded. She was happy at her new job. She had made a few friends, people who hadn’t known her before the Manor. They were nice. They didn’t pry. They didn’t ask her about her past or personal business. They left her alone.

To anyone else, she would have sounded like a hermit. Antisocial. An outcast.

But Damien understood.

He knew what it was like to feel eyes on you as you walk down the street. He knew the fake smiles and the poorly disguised curiosity. The sly questions, the annoyed frowns when gossip wasn’t accepted nor passed on.

He knew the rejection. He knew what it was to feel unwelcome in your own hometown.

Her voice began to shake as she spoke of her sister-in-law. The only one who didn’t run when she told her what she did. Emma spoke of her nephew, a sweet boy of ten who reminded her so much of her brother.

Without thinking, Damien reached out to cradle her cheek in his hand, wiping away her tears with his thumb.

Her breath hitched, but he wasn’t sure if it was his touch or her sobs that caused it.

“I’m sorry, Emma,” he murmured. “I’m sorry I wasn’t there for you.”

She froze, and he feared he’d said something wrong. “I…I’m sorry if that was too—”

“Damien.”

Her hands reached up to cup his face. Her thumbs brushed over the scruff on his chin.

“Damien, _I’m_ sorry. I’m _so_ _sorry_.”

He couldn’t breathe.

Emma’s hands were shaking. He could feel the tremors reverberate through his jaw. He reached up to take her hands, pressing his thumbs into her palms. Her fingers curled over his and he gently pulled them to his mouth, brushing his lips over her knuckles.

He needed her.

He needed her hands and her lips and her eyes and her voice. He needed her thoughts, her opinions, her feelings, her dreams.

Her heart.

Her soft green eyes were wide, as if he had said it all out loud. He wondered if his own eyes were telling her what his closed throat could not.

“Damien, I missed you.” Her voice was barely above a whisper.

He pressed her fingers to his lips again, then lowered his forehead onto their joined hands. “I missed you too,” he mumbled.

He felt her pulse racing in her wrists. His own heartbeat thundered in his head.

It was now or never.

He let go of one of her hands, suppressed a momentary delighted smile at her disappointed “ _oh_ ,” and pulled the envelope out. He pressed it into her palm.

She looked him in the eyes. Questioning. Apprehensive.

He squelched the doubts that began to rise in his stomach. “Open it,” he murmured. The tremor in his otherwise-coaxing voice betrayed his nervousness.

She pulled back slightly, seeming hesitant to turn her face away from his. They compromised, Damien curling his arm around her shoulders as if it were the most natural thing in the world as she pressed into his side. Her deft fingers felt the envelope first, curious about the strange lump on one side. She sliced the flap open with practiced ease, reaching in to pull out a folded piece of paper.

Her eyes found his, and he nodded encouragingly. “Read it,” he urged her.

She did.

This time, her nearness allowed him to feel her breath catch. Suddenly stricken with fear, he froze, watching her eyes run over the carefully penned words over and over again.

Finally, she turned her eyes to his. To his shock, she was smirking, even as tears filled her eyes. “Did you really need to write all this out?”

A blush warmed Damien’s cheeks. “I… I wanted to make sure I said it right.”

She choked on a laugh, and he pulled her closer, pressing a kiss to her temple.

She turned the envelope over, and a small object fell into her palm.

“We can get it resized,” he mumbled into her hair, watching her turn it in her fingers. “But… I have a feeling it’ll fit.”

She turned her face to his as he took the object from her hand. Their noses brushed as he slipped the ring onto her fourth finger.

“There,” he whispered. “A perfect fit.”

A perfect fit.

He tilted his face down, brushing his lips to the corner of her mouth.

Cautious. Testing. Giving her space to move away.

To say no.

Her right hand found his cheek, where she found tears. “Yes,” she said, her quiet voice thick with emotion. “Yes, Damien. Yes.”

A slight adjustment, bumped noses, and quiet, bashful laughter, and finally, their lips met.

The past would come to haunt them, inevitably. It always did.

But this time, when that time came, they would face it. Hand in hand.

Together.


	34. Bittersweet: Part 3

Abe put the car in park and settled back to look at his companion. “You ready for this, kid?”

The dark-haired individual shrugged, staring straight ahead.

“Yeah. Me too.”

It had only been a year since Damien and Emma had gotten married. It had been a small affair, with only a few friends and family present and one of Emma’s lawyer friends as an officiant.

Normally, Abe didn’t care for weddings. He hadn’t been there for Mark’s and he considered that a blessing, especially after what ended up happening. He preferred to keep a clear head when it came to picking sides in such important matters.

For Emma and Damien, however, he made an exception.

Which is why he now sat in the car in front of their house, preparing to make the long walk to the door and change their life, for better or worse, possibly irreparably. “C’mon, kid. Let’s go.”

From the absence of Damien’s car in the driveway, Abe assumed the man was getting overtime at the retirement home. He had hoped that they would both be there, and he nearly turned back at the notion of confronting Emma without her calmer half at her side.

However, when a set of small, tentative fingers wound around his, a glance to his diminutive companion reminded him of his mission.

Emma was there at the second set of knocks. Her dark, curly hair was past her shoulders now, and the sides were pulled back with a blue ribbon. Abe noted the silver rings on her ring finger.

Her first expression was that of shock, and suddenly Abe wished he had given her more preparation. But then she smiled. “Abe. I wasn’t expecting you until later.”

He managed a returning smile. “Yeah, uh, sorry about that, I had to uh… you know.”

She didn’t, by the looks of it. Abe cleared his throat. He tugged gently on the small hand clasping his, pulling it forward. “I, uh, have someone for you to meet.”

Emma’s eyebrow quirked, then her eyes fell to the small boy at Abe’s side, seeming to finally notice him. Her eyes rounded. “Oh. Hello, there.”

“Small” was rather generous, to be honest. He was positively tiny, with an unruly mop of jet black hair dwarfing his head even further. He was wearing his Sunday Best, which truly wasn’t that impressive, but he wore it with dignity, which was more than most five-year-olds could say, Abe thought with pride.

Emma knelt carefully. “What’s your name, kiddo?”

The boy hugged Abe’s leg. He mumbled something into the coarse fabric, and Abe ruffled his hair affectionately. “It’s Liam,” the detective said when the boy fell silent. He waited for Emma to look up before he continued. “His full name is William J. Barnum, Jr.”

She shot to her feet in an instant. She opened her mouth, attempting to speak, but it seemed she was unable.

Instead, Abe offered gently, “Let’s talk.”

Young Liam was busied with cookies, two pencil stubs, and a legal pad. The two adults sat on the couch as he worked seriously on the coffee table.

“How old is he?” Emma asked quietly, not taking her eyes off the boy.

“Almost six,” Abe replied.

“Does he know? About…?”

“He knows.” They watched Liam carefully trace one of the cookies onto the paper before Abe spoke again. “He didn’t know either of them very well, though. Colonel visited him occasionally. Barely remembers his mom.”

“I see.”

The two fell silent once again. Liam took a bite out of a cookie, then traced the bite mark onto the paper with remarkable precision.

“Is he very shy?” Emma said at last.

Abe snorted. “Only with strangers. Kid can be a chatterbox when he feels safe.“ He glanced at her. "Which— I’m gonna be honest, partner— isn’t very often.” He looked back at the boy. “Took me a while to hunt him down— the Colonel had trouble remembering where he was. Sometimes even who he was. So I took the bits of what Colonel said and pieced them together with the paperwork. Led me right to him.”

“An orphanage?”

Seems being a bank teller hadn’t dulled her wit any. “Bingo. Sixth one in five years, I heard. They kept kicking him out.”

“Did he get in trouble?” Emma asked worriedly.

“Nah. Trouble got him, according to his caretakers. His parentage got to be a hot topic among his peers. Calling him a witch and such. Guess some gossipy adults had loose lips.” He shook his head. “They didn’t want to make the effort to put a stop to it, I guess.”

“Poor kid.”

“Yeah. He’s a tough little guy, though. Smart as a whip, too.” He waited for Liam to look up, then grinned. “Might want him as a partner some day.”

The boy smiled. It was the first time Emma had seen him do so.

She cleared her throat. “So, Abe. It's… nice to have some kind of closure on this matter. But I have a feeling you aren’t here to close out this chapter of our lives.”

Young Liam grew still, his smile disappearing. His eyes darted between the two of them, nearly hidden behind the curtain of his wild hair.

Abe shifted uncomfortably. He folded his hands in his lap and sighed down at them. “The Colonel wants you two to take the kid in.”

“Wh—” Emma glanced at the boy, then back at Abe. “What?”

“I was hoping to catch Damien while he was home, but…”

“He’ll be back soon.” She blinked and swallowed hard. “Why us?”

“Ironically enough, you’re two of the only people the Colonel actually trusts,” he snapped. He lowered his voice. “Emma. He was lucid. For the first time in months. I had told him you were getting married, and he lit up like a poorly maintained gas station. He knew you were the only hope for his son!”

“What about the orphanage? Surely you can take him back—”

“I am _never_ taking him back there.” His tone was cold, but fury bubbled close beneath the surface. He took a breath, and continued. “He will never set foot in that place again if I’ve got anything to say about it.” Across the coffee table, Liam’s shoulders relaxed.

Emma bit her lip. Her knuckles were white on the polished arm of the sofa. “I… I need to talk to Damien, I…”

“I know. Take your time.” He nodded toward Liam, standing and picking up his hat. “He’s staying with me while you decide.”

Emma stood as well. “Are you still staying for supper?”

His eyebrows rose slightly. “Am I still welcome?”

“Of course.”

“Then do you mind setting out another plate?”


	35. Bittersweet: Part 4

It was past midnight, the night after the dinner with Abe and young Liam. The shadows of the house were deep and oppressive, and the owners of the house were feeling their effects.

Emma’s eyes snapped open, her muscles stiff and her breath coming in strangled huffs. Shaking, she stared unseeing into the darkness, willing herself to stay awake.

At her back, her husband stirred. A gentle hand touched her arm. “Darling?” came Damien’s hushed, sleep-roughened voice. “You alright?”

She rolled over to face him.

It had been a while, but it wasn’t the first time she had seen her own nightmares reflected in his eyes.

They lay on their sides facing each other. Emma had one hand pillowed under her cheek and the other resting on the mattress in front of her. Damien reached out and placed his hand over hers.

“Tell me if you wish,” he murmured.

She pressed her nose to their joined hands, steadying her breathing. She didn’t often want to talk about her nightmares. They were too real, too fresh in her mind, and Damien had the same ones often enough for it not to be necessary. But this time she opened her mouth and spoke in a whisper.

“We were back in the manor. It was burning… all around us. We… you, Abe, the Colonel, and I… we were all dead, but we were walking around. Living corpses. And… and Celine…”

Celine. It always went back to Celine. Damien’s brow furrowed, but his eyes were sad, not angry.

Emma swallowed. “She wasn’t there. Sometimes… I thought she was, but… ” She shook her head. “She was gone. It was my fault, it’s always my fault—”

Damien released her hand and wrapped his arm around her waist, pulling her to his chest. “Emma, listen to me,” he murmured into her hair. “We’ve talked about this. What happened to Celine wasn’t your fault.”

“I pulled the trigger,” she whispered against his nightshirt. “She’s gone because of me, if I hadn’t shot her—”

“If you hadn’t shot her then something worse might have happened.” He pulled away and held her shoulders, looking her in the eye. “Emma. Celine was gone long before she showed up at the manor.”

He pulled her close again and for a moment, they held each other. Emma took shuddering breaths and Damien rubbed her back, rubbing his face on her head and catching her fine hair in his scruffy beard.

Eventually, her grip on his nightshirt loosened. Damien prepared to let her move away, but she stayed close, murmuring into his chest, too quietly for him to understand.

“What was that?” he asked gently.

Emma pulled back, just barely. “The dream was different this time.”

Her husband frowned at the tone of her voice. “Different how?”

“It wasn’t just us this time.” Emma shuddered again, and Damien’s hold on her tightened. When she spoke again, her voice was hoarse with raw fear. “There was someone else.”

“It wasn’t real, darling,” he soothed. “It was just a nightmare.”

“I know. But when I saw him, standing there, surrounded by the flames, I couldn't… it felt so wrong. It was so wrong. He was just standing there, staring at me.”

Damien’s throat tightened, his wife’s fear contagious. “Who was it, Emma?” he asked softly.

She swallowed hard. Her arms came up to wrap around his back and she pressed herself against him, as if his closeness would somehow protect her from the horror. She opened her mouth, and the words came out in a harsh, coarse whisper.

“It was Liam.”

~

The morning came, and brought with it rationale, comfort, and to a degree, shame. Who would have a nightmare about an innocent little boy you’ve just met? Damien rationalized as they were getting dressed that it was Liam’s connection to Celine, something that would traumatize anyone. He didn’t mention it, but Emma noted the shadows under his eyes were deeper than usual. She didn’t have to ask to know that he had slept poorly.

It was Sunday, and so the pair dressed for church and headed to the small chapel they had taken to attending. The congregation was small but warm, and had welcomed them with open arms.

Today, however, they didn’t sit alone. Next to them on the pew were Abe, looking slightly uncomfortable, and Liam, whose eyes were shining with excitement. Evidently he had attended Sunday School before the service, and had been awarded a piece of chocolate for excellent behavior.

Damien had grinned at the news, and knelt to tousle the boy’s hair and congratulate him. Over their heads, Emma and Abe exchanged looks. Abe’s was characterized by a grin and lifted eyebrows, while Emma shrugged lightly. Damien was good with kids and this didn’t surprise either of them.

Liam insisted, in his quiet way, on sitting between Emma and Abe. He was well-behaved, to a degree. He stood and sang the hymns with a lovely soprano, and while he had a hard time sitting still during the sermon, seemed to quiet down when Abe slipped him a pen and a pad of paper to scribble on.

The four went to picnic in the park afterward, giving Liam space to run around and play. Emma expected him to do so as soon as he finished his ham sandwich, but he didn't— instead opting to sit with the adults a while, listening to Abe recount one of his recent cases.

The detective didn’t mince words around the kid. He spoke with his usual level of (often grotesque) detail and vulgarity, causing Emma and Damien to exchange concerned glances. But Liam didn’t seem bothered or even surprised. He simply nodded along.

Halfway through the tale Liam stood and wandered away. On instinct Emma almost called him back, but Abe waved it off. “I don’t mind,” he said cheerfully. “I told him if he ever gets bored when I’m telling a story he has special permission to leave. Kid gets bored sometimes. So do I. I get it.”

“Will was the same, his whole life,” Damien said without thinking. “Couldn’t sit still without a pipe in his—”

He stopped. Emma’s hand brushed his, and Abe nodded, unbothered. “He’s doing well,” he offered quietly. “I called this morning to give him an update on Liam. He didn't… he didn’t remember what I was talking about, but he sounded happy. Guess they gave him chocolate today, or something.”

Strained smiles were exchanged.

Liam came back with a fistful of wildflowers. He offered one to each of them. “For you,” he said with a shy, gap-toothed smile.

Emma noticed he still had flowers clutched in his fist. “Saving those for a special someone?” she said, attempting a teasing tone.

The boy didn’t blink. “These are for my mom,” he said matter-of-factly.

A pained, awkward chuckle, ripping through Damien’s chest, broke the silence that followed. “That’s real sweet of you, kid,” Abe managed, reaching up to ruffle Liam’s hair.

Emma said nothing. She couldn’t.

~

“I’m next of kin,” Damien said forcefully that night, throwing the dish towel onto the counter.

“That doesn’t matter! Are we even capable of giving him what he needs?” Emma retorted. Her sponge landed with a pathetic _squelch_ in the sink.

“We won’t know until we try.”

“If we try, it’s already too late.”

“I thought you wanted kids!”

“ _Eventually_! And with _you_ , not—”

_From them._

_From Celine._

Emma’s voice cracked like a looking-glass. “How long are they going to haunt us, Damien? How long will we have to live… How long do _I_ have to live with…”

“Emma.”

He wasn’t angry.

Damien was capable of having a temper, just like his sister. Emma had seen him angry, seen him with rage and terror and hurt in his eyes and voice and seen his white-knuckled grip on the steering wheel after a fight. His knuckles had been white just like that at the drive home from the picnic. He had asked her if she wanted to take Liam in.

She knew what his answer was going to be.

He knew hers.

But now, he wasn’t angry.

“Emma, if we don’t do this, it may… they may haunt us forever.”

His gentle hand took hers, tugging lightly. After half a second of resistance she conceded, allowing him to pull her into his arms.

For a moment they stood there in the kitchen, their arms around each other.

“This is our chance to stop running, my love. To do something right, to stop hiding from the world and bring… bring some _good_ into it for once.”

He was right. Of course he was right.

“He’s a smart little boy,” she mumbled into his chest.

She felt Damien smile into her hair. “Just like his uncle?”

“I’ll give you that one, sir, but don’t push your luck.”

He laughed, and Emma felt herself relax.

Damien’s hand fell to the back of her neck and she allowed him to pull back to lean down and give her a light kiss. “I’m not going to force you into it,” he murmured. “God knows we both need to be all in for it to work. But, Emma…”

“I’ll do it, Damien.” She smiled at his mid-sentence slacked jaw. “You’re right. About all of it. Liam needs us and… maybe we need him. Maybe a child’s laughter is what this dreary old house needs.”

“It’s not _that_ dreary…”

“I’m scared, Damien. Terrified.”

He looked down at her, raising his eyebrows. “Well… yes, of course. Me too.”

A pained but cautiously hopeful smile broadened his wife’s face. “But we can do it. We can do it for our nephew. Can’t we?”

He grinned, and leaned down to kiss her again.

“We can.”

Together.


	36. He Has the Devil in His Eyes (Flashing Warning) (Optional chapter)

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He has the Devil in his eyes,

“It comes from his mother” they say.

“the minute she bore him she set him aside.

that’s why he turned out that way.”

Some say he can’t help what he’s doing.

Others say he was sick in the mind.

But no matter who tutted or scolded or sighed

he found what he set out to find.

“He has the Devil in his eyes,”

they whispered as he passed along.

no matter the places he found himself in,

he knew he could never be wrong.

he always had friends he could lean on

but pride often kept him away

he learned far too late that challenging fate

had too high a price to pay.

They have the Devil in their eyes,

but that’s just what some people say.

he’s cruel and he’s kind and they’ll pay you no mind

_as long as you stay out of their way._


	37. Dear Readers

Consistency is in short supply these days.

Things happening out of order, long breaks in between. Bits and pieces that don’t match up.

I’d be lying if I told you it was all by design. I’d also be lying if I said I understand why things happen the way they do.

But that’s not why I’m writing this.

Some continuity “errors” have been deliberate. Hints, puzzle pieces to indicate what’s really going on. If you’ve been paying attention and keeping track, I’m sure you’ve noticed that some parts don’t line up. My job _isn’t_ to make sure they do. They’re that way for a reason, because they _are_. Because that’s how it happened. If it’s confusing that’s because your world doesn’t work that way, and my world isn’t supposed to but it does.

If anybody else was reading this, anybody from _my_ end, I’m sure they’d call me crazy. But you understand, at least a little, don’t you? I hope so. If you don’t I hope you’ll be able to piece together what’s going on by the the time we need your help.

Maybe I’ll write again to explain, if it comes to that.

The most important thing for you to know is that **Emma shot Celine, and she also didn’t**. One decision that changed everything. One decision that created the two stories you should be paying the most attention to.

I’ve been calling one “Bittersweet” because it is. Because it seems like the happiest ending but it’s not. Auntie Emma and Uncle Damien were happy but they suffered. I was to blame for a lot of that suffering, but I was also adding on to years of buildup. They never told me exactly what they went through but I guessed at a lot of it.

I like to think that I gave them some peace when I left. Sometimes I’m not so sure.

…Back to the point.

Consistency is important within a story, but we’re not dealing with just one story. Branching paths that never should have entwined, but they did. Because someone screwed up.

Was it me? Maybe. I’ve been known to cause my fair share of inconsistencies.

But you need to know that there are only two people I know of that can alter a story from within it. (Well, three, but I don’t really count him since he doesn’t seem to know he’s doing it.)

I am one of those people, and I have a feeling you know who the other one is.

I’m trying to find him. He knows something about my parents, he knows something about the branching paths and the entwined stories.

He has the answers, I’m sure of it.

And if he somehow has anything to do with what happened to Anna…. I’m the only one who can stop him.

Keep an eye out for us, will you?

And watch your back.

## Best wishes,  
Liam


	38. Interim: Part 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In case you wanted to know what it was like to be me.

It would be easy to say that your life goal has been very simple: Reunite with your parents and live the rest of your lives in peace. That’s all you wanted, at first. That’s the only thing that made sense.

Well, besides the fact that your mother was dead. For some reason, that never really deterred you. 

You remember the look on your uncle’s face when you first said you wanted to see her. In retrospect, you feel bad. The lines on his forehead had deepened and he was speechless for a moment as you waited expectantly.

“Your… you can’t see your mother anymore, Liam,” he had said to you, as gently as he could. His eyes were misty but resolute. “We buried her in November, remember? Did you want to visit her graveside?”

You had shaken your head. No, you wanted to talk to her in person. You had questions that only she could answer. Uncle Damien hadn’t been able to say anything else and Aunt Emma had spoken up. “Maybe we can talk about this when you’re older, dear.”

You were a reasonable child. You waited until about five years later, a week after your tenth birthday, to bring it up again. (You had waited a week in order to avoid interrupting the festivities.)

“I want to talk to my mom and dad,” you had said, in the most grown-up tone you could muster.

Emma and Damien had exchanged glances.

Damien left to make a phone call.

All three of you woke up with bloody noses that night. 

~

Col. William was in a good mood when you sat across from him at the big metal table in the big cold room. A guard in a uniform stood nearby, but the Colonel was handcuffed. You weren’t afraid of him, anyway. 

“Hello, Dad,” you said in a friendly tone. You sat politely in the big chair, your feet dangling several inches from the ground, with your hands in your lap.

He didn’t look up from his notebook for a while, but when he did, he looked surprised. “Well, good morning, my boy,” he said kindly, even though it was early afternoon. “My name is William J. Barnum, but you may call me Colonel. I’d shake your hand, but…” He gestured with the handcuffs on his wrists. You smiled slightly, and he continued. “What brings a young lad like you to a place like this?”

So he’d forgotten already. Emma had warned you he would. “My name is Liam,” you said patiently. “You forgot me, but I’m your son.”

“Son?” He shook his head, laughing. “Oh, I can’t have a son. Celine would never allow that to happen. Her husband is quite the unpredictable man, you know.”

_Celine_. Your mother. You grasped onto that, leaning forward. “What was Celine like, Colonel?”

He paused and tilted his head. “Celine is… strong. Stubborn, but brilliant, vivacious, enrapturing…” A sigh escaped his lips and he smiled dreamily. “My first love. My only love, truly.”

Quickly, before you thought to lose your nerve, you asked, “Was she a witch?”

“Heavens no!” You were thankful that the Colonel laughed, instead of being offended. “Goodness, where could you get an idea like that? Ah, wagging tongues, most likely. Most unfortunate.” Shaking his head, he looked down at his journal and laughed to himself. “No, she was not a witch, my boy. She was fascinated with the supernatural, had been since she was but a slip of a girl. I never discouraged her, but… I’ll admit I did worry.” He shook his head again, his smile fading. “But she was always quite a bit smarter than I, so I didn’t question her. I assumed she knew what she was getting into." 

Suddenly, he frowned, and looked up at you. The sharp gaze of his dark eyes was sad but incredibly intelligent. ”… How could this be?“ he asked softly. "She told me she gave you up.”

It took you a moment to realize that he knew who you were. “She did. Uncle Abe found me and took me to Emma and Damien.”

He nodded, not seeming surprised. “Honest Abe… so he did hear me,” he murmured. “You’re a fortunate boy. Damien’s probably a better father than I could ever be.”

_You never even tried_ , you thought you might like to say. But you didn’t, because your father was here and he recognized you and you could be a family now.

“They’ll raise you to be a good man,” he continued, and your heart dropped. “I’m not getting out of here any time soon, so I hope you visit me again. It’ll be a nice change from only seeing Abe every few months.”

“But—” This isn’t how it’s supposed to go. You found him, he knows you. He’s supposed to take care of you. “Why can’t I stay with you?”

He smiled, and this one was sadder than ever. “Prison isn’t a good place to raise a growing boy, I’m afraid. Besides, I'm…” He looked down at his journal. “I forgot again, didn’t I? I remembered the wrong things.”

“I remember wrong things too!” you insisted, but he shook his head gently at you, not looking up.

“Not like this. Like this, I'd… I couldn’t do right by you. Emma and Damien are good people, they aren't… like me.”

“What’s wrong with you?” you demanded, hurt and scared and naive.

He didn’t answer then, so you asked again. But he didn’t say anything even when the guard came to pull you out. You weren’t sure why the guard had come until you felt moisture on your face and your throat was sore, and you realized you’d been crying, which had escalated into screaming, and you didn’t know how to stop.

The guard passed you off to the warden, nursing a bloody nose, and you didn’t remember hitting him but you were sorry, and you tried to apologize but the only noises you could make were sobs and cries like a wounded animal’s.

Uncle Abe was waiting for you in the front office. You couldn’t stand the look on his face when he saw your state, so you turned your face away, allowing yourself to be handed off like a limp marionette and burying your face in his shoulder.

He didn’t say anything to you as he buckled you into his cruiser, but he did squeeze your shoulder. You guessed that that was his attempt at comforting you, so you decided to appreciate it.

The warden came out to the car, then, and Abe shut the door to talk to him in relative private. After a subdued but tense conversation, the warden handed Abe a package, which he tucked into his jacket.

He didn’t say anything at all until he asked if you wanted to get some ice cream, to which you nodded miserably.

He let you choose a park bench to enjoy your treats. You always got chocolate with liberal amounts of sprinkles, and he indulged in a simple scoop of strawberry.

The park bench was too tall for you, but you were a bit small for your age. You didn’t mind getting to swing your legs, and it’s hard to cry when you’re eating ice cream, because the salt doesn’t taste very good, so you were starting to feel better.

Abe passed his cone to one hand and reached over with the other to ruffle your wild black hair. “Didn’t go how you expected, huh?”

Wordlessly, you shook your head. 

“That’s okay, kid. Nothing can really prepare you for that.” His hand fell back to his lap, and you contemplated his statement.

“What’s wrong with… with William?” you asked finally, having decided not to call him by either “Colonel” or “Father”, for he was neither your friend nor a paternal figure. He had forfeited that right.

Abe sighed, took off his hat and ran his hand over the fuzz on his head. “He's… well, I dunno for sure, kid. He’s not all there, yknow? Forgets things. Remembers things wrong. Thinks things are true that aren’t. Stuff like that.”

“I do that too,” you point out, because it’s true. Just the night before you had woken up thinking you had a dog, and Damien had had to keep you from going out in the cold to find her because she had “gotten lost in the golf greens”.

It still _felt_ like you had a dog, but there was no dog there, so you’d decided to believe Damien.

Abe knew you weren’t lying. He simply searched your face, nodding thoughtfully, and finished his ice cream with a pensive scowl. As you both crunched on your cones, he spoke up again. “Liam, there’s something the Colonel wants you to have.”

You immediately abandoned your determination to forget William ever existed. “A present? For me?”

A small grin crossed his face as he reached into his coat and pulled out a package wrapped in brown paper. You reached for it instinctively, then remembered yourself and placed your hands back in your lap, waiting for him to speak.

Taking note of your rarely-seen excitement, Abe passed the package to you. “I think there’s a note inside, but it might be hard for you to re—”

Before he could even finish speaking, you’d already torn the string and paper off and were reading the handwritten note tucked inside the cover of a small, plain, blank notebook.

The note was written in elegant but firm script. Some of the words were crossed out and rewritten, and you noticed that most of them were when he referred to things in the present when really they were in the past— a mistake you’d been known to make as well.

_My Dear Son William Jr.,_

_I hasten to write this while I still have my mind. It comes and goes these days, and I fear that you may be predisposed to the same problems. Hence, this little gift._

_My boy, sometimes the world will not make sense to you. Sometimes, you may forget things, or remember something that didn’t really happen. In times like that, it may be helpful to have something you can look back on, something that you know is correct and unchangeable._

_The written word is a powerful thing, my boy, and I pray that someday you realize just how true that statement is._

_This journal is a tool, my dear son, to help you keep your mind in order. Everything you experience, every thought you have, write it down in this little book. It may feel silly at first, but I promise you, the minute you remember something that no-one else does, you can look back in this book and find the truth._

_I hope you find it useful._

_All my love,_

_The Colonel_


	39. Interim: Part 5

You’ve never had a brother that you know of, but if you could name one person who would fill that role, it would be your cousin, Michael Bailey.

He was your cousin on Emma’s side. Five years older than you, cool to kids and adults alike, Mike knew how to have fun without getting in trouble. It was partly for that reason that Emma and Damien liked to have him around to entertain you, you supposed. 

Mike’s dad— Emma’s older brother— had died in the War, so you never got to meet him. Mike never seemed put out about it, though. He always had a smile on his face and a joke to tell— something that you, a kid with no friends and few things to smile about, appreciated greatly.

When he was fifteen (three months after your tenth birthday, to be exact), he moved in with you, Emma, and Damien. You remember sitting on the stairs when you were supposed to be getting ready for school, listening to the three of them talk in the living room.

“You’re welcome to stay as long as you want,” Damien was saying. 

Mike murmured something, probably some sort of expression of gratitude.

Emma offered him breakfast. Mike refused politely, saying something about carsickness.

Damien asked Mike about his mother. He was being polite because Emma already knew— she was always taking care of her sister-in-law, the only family she had left— but Mike responded with the same information that you all knew already. Ellen was the same, still sick and getting sicker. You remembered the word _typhoid_ being mentioned when they had spoken about it before.

You clung to the banister, pondering. Why did adults find it necessary to talk about things they already knew? Wouldn’t it be a better use of their time to ask things they didn’t know?

Footsteps rattled the staircase, and you watched a head of tight orangey-red curls turn the corner at the landing.

Mike stopped when he saw you, sitting on the stairs, still in your bedclothes.

For a moment you stared at each other. His fine eyebrows were raised, making his pale blue eyes seem almost silver. Your eyes were dark as ever and mostly hidden, strands of coal black hair curtaining your face. 

Then Mike grinned. His skinny arms were strained from holding his suitcase. “Hey, squirt.”

Uncle Abe called you squirt, too. Mike had started doing it only recently, probably trying to mimic him, and you supposed that was alright. You’ve been called worse. 

Emma came up behind Mike. Her eyebrows shot up when she saw you. “Liam, honey, your uncle will be leaving for work soon. Did you want me to drive you instead?”

Slowly, you shook your head. You wordlessly stepped down and pulled Mike’s suitcase from his hand and took it up the rest of the stairs to the spare room, then sat on the bed.

He didn’t seem bothered by your presence. He was wearing nice pants and a sweater vest with a blue jacket with patches on the elbows, kind of like how Damien dressed on Saturdays, except Damien was strong and had a big rib cage while Mike was all arms and legs.

Mike took off his jacket and draped it over your head, prompting a quiet giggle and a flail, resulting in the jacket ending up on the floor instead.

He laughed, too, ruffling your mop of hair like everyone else seemed to like to do. “Doncha have school, kid?” he said, opening his suitcase on the bed next to you.

You got up on your knees to see if he brought you anything. “Nuh-uh,” you said, although that wasn’t exactly true. You would just ask Damien to stop by your school after work and get your homework from your teacher.

Mike grinned. He knew what you were up to. “Just wanted to spend time with your favorite cousin, huh?”

“You’re my only cousin,” you pointed out, reasonably enough. “Except if Emma and Damien have a baby.”

“But then the kid’d be your sibling, right?”

You paused. “… I guess.”

Emma and Damien had become your legal guardians a little under five years before, but you still didn’t really think of them as your parents. They’d never tried to make you call them “Mom” and “Dad”, didn’t even make you call them “Aunt” and “Uncle” (but you did anyway). They were just kind of… there. They took care of you, clothed you, fed you, taught you manners and morals the best that they could, helped you with homework and played with you when they had the time.

You liked them a lot. Maybe you could even love them, someday.

But would a child of theirs really be your sibling?

“You’re thinking pretty hard there, kid,” Mike pointed out, carefully placing a stack of folded shirts in the dresser. He sat on the bed next to you and kicked off his shoes.

You nodded thoughtfully. You did think a lot. Emma always said it was because you were so smart. Damien said it was because you were wise.

You didn’t really like how much thinking you did. It got noisy.

“Hey, Liam. Gotcha something.”

Said something gently tapped the top of your head. You looked up and it gently smushed your nose instead.

“A book?” you wondered.

Mike dropped the item in your lap. “It’s a new journal. Auntie said that yours was almost full. You good at writing?”

You shrugged.

“You like writing?”

This time, you nodded. Reading and writing was as natural to you as breathing.

“How much you write a day?”

“Two thousand words.” You’re not quite sure how you know that but it sounds correct. 

“Two-thousand? A squirt like you?” You frowned up at him, and he smiled sheepishly. “Sorry. Just teasin’. Writing is good, good for your brain.”

Emma said that too, sometimes. She was always pleased to see you writing in your journal. Did she put Mike up to giving you a new one?

“Why didn’t Emma give me this herself?” you asked curiously. 

Mike’s smile wavered, then turned into a scowl. You opened your mouth to apologize but he shook his head. “Nah, kid, Auntie didn’t tell me to get this for you, I just— I wanted to, y'know?” He rubbed the back of his neck. “Gosh, man. Don’t your friends ever give you stuff?”

You stared at him blankly, and his frown deepened. But he didn’t look angry at you, or at anything really. It was more like when Damien was worried about something. His forehead went all scrunchy and one corner of his mouth leaned to the side while the other stayed in place.

“Don’t you have friends at school?” he tried again.

You shook your head slowly. You spent your class time doing your work, and recess reading and writing. You didn’t have the time nor desire to spend time with other kids— You never knew how to act with them, anyway, and they didn’t know what to do with you either. Best not to bother.

Mike didn’t say anything more about it, but when Emma came to the room to check on him and was clearly about to scold you for delaying, he smiled and said, “Actually, I was wondering if he could stick around, just for today. I know you and Uncle need to work so… I thought maybe he could show me around. Keep me company, y'know?”

Your eyes darted between the two. Mike didn’t need to be shown around. He’d spent plenty of time here. Did he really want to spend the day with you?

Emma’s lips twisted around, like they always did when she was thinking. But then she looked at you, and a smile flitted across her face. “Just for today, understand?”

“Yes ma'am,” you said, at the same time that Mike said “Thanks, Auntie.”

You grinned, ducking your head. Emma and Mike laughed.

You’d never had someone around all the time, someone who wasn’t an adult.

It took some getting used to.

But… it was nice.


	40. Sleep

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Eris has a dream.

Most of the time, when I dream, I dream about Mark.

He’s usually just standing there, his body mangled and rotting, his smile too large for his face. He mocks our pursuit of him. Inevitably, I attack him, and he disappears, his laughter ringing in my ears until the ringing becomes Darkiplier’s comforting aura and I wake up.

This time, however, the dream is different.

I’m looking for something.

Someone?

I wander the ruins of a building. A house, maybe. It’s burnt. Burnt to the ground.

There used to be a second floor. I pause at the remains of a staircase.

A hand touches my shoulder, and I turn.

I look into the smiling eyes of Wilford Warfstache. But there’s something… different. Is he wearing a hat? Since when did he need glasses?

_“Are you lost, honeybunches?”_

His voice. Something is wrong. He’s speaking clearly. No slurring. He sounds… educated.

He cups my face and kisses me, and I push him away. Hurt flashes on his face.

No, no. Wil laughs in apology when I do that. Easygoing and confident. This is not him. This is wrong.

Where is he?

I find the parlor. Two people are sitting at a circular table. A man and a woman. They look at me, and they look so alike I believe they must be siblings.

They both smile in delight. _“Sit down,”_ the man says.

 _“We’ve missed you,”_ the woman says.

I sit.

We all holds hands on top of the table.

I look at the woman. For some reason, I expect her to be angry with me. She’s not. She’s still smiling.

I look at the man. He gazes at me fondly. I’m pleased. I missed them too, didn’t I?

_Didn’t I?_

Hands grasp my shoulders. Familiar and unwelcome. Cold breath freezes the back of my neck.

**“It’s not fair, is it?”**

The stench of decay turns my stomach.

Mark stands in front of me, dressed in a tattered tuxedo. Or, what remains of him. His body is mangled beyond repair, blood is everywhere, his smile too wide for his mouth. His eyes are nonexistent, sunken voids in their place.

Instinctively I reach for my hatchet, but it’s not at my hip. Instead, I find something in my pocket.

A very small, silver gun, small enough to fit comfortably in my palm.

Mark laughs at that. **“You were good at using that, once.”**

I know how to use a gun. Don’t I?

I aim and shoot.

Black ink pours from the new wound in his chest. He laughs, and the ink pours from his mouth. He says something, something mocking. I can’t understand him, but for some reason, I’m hurt. Why would he say something like that to me?

He steps forward, undeterred by the hole in his chest.

I have to get away.

I turn. His taunting whispers fill my ears. He laughs.

I take two steps, and the laughter is gradually drowned out by a deafening ringing. It pulses, pushing itself into my brain, giving me double vision.

Normally, Darkiplier’s aura is comforting. A buzzing in my head like a pleasant drug. Now, it hurts.

I fall to my knees, clutching my head. I cover my ears but it doesn’t matter. The ringing is inside my head, curling around my brain, worming its way into my thoughts. Murmuring suggestions and gentle mockery. _What’s wrong? Why don’t you get up? You’re tired, aren’t you? You’re so tired. You should sleep. Can’t you even do that? Are you good for anything else?_

I can’t sleep. It’s too loud. It hurts too much.

It’s too loud.

Hands touch my head, my shoulders. I look up, and the siblings from before are kneeling in front of me. They aren’t smiling now. Now, they look angry. Afraid.

Darkness surrounds us. They open their mouths and Dark’s voice comes out.

_“You shouldn’t be poking around where you don’t belong.”_

_“You need to learn your place.”_

_“Aren’t you tired?”_

_“Aren’t you exhausted?”_

_“Why don’t you sleep?”_

_“Go back to sleep.”_

_I am asleep,_ I think. This is a nightmare. _I am asleep._

I am asleep.

I open my eyes. It takes me a moment to adjust, but when I do, I see Darkiplier bent over me.

We’re home, in bed. The shadows in the window suggest it must be the wee hours of the morning.

Dark’s brow is furrowed, the only change in his otherwise uncaring expression.

“Nightmare?” he says coolly, knowing the answer.

“Yes,” I say anyway. It’s never a good idea to leave his questions unanswered, no matter how obvious they are.

Dark is sitting on the edge of the bed. He slips a hand under my back and helps me sit up. I notice he’s still wearing his suit, although he’s missing his tie and the first few buttons of his shirt are undone. I wonder if he even went to bed last night.

“Tell me about it,” he commands gently, his hand still on my back. For some reason, I’m wary of his touch.

“I was in a house,” I say immediately. “It was burnt down. I was looking for someone… or something. I don’t remember it very well.”

“I see.”

His tone is noncommittal. I panic momentarily, wondering what I said wrong. I didn’t lie, I don’t think. Did I? When he says nothing else, I risk a question.

“Dark?”

He’s lazily combing his fingers through the ends of my hair. “Mh.”

“Who was Wilford before he died?”

He pauses. I stiffen, but he makes no threatening movements. He simply seems thoughtful.

“Wil is not… like us, Eris.”

“He’s not?”

“No.”

“Then he was always himself?”

A smile drifts across his lips. A real one. A sad one?

I’m mesmerized. Perhaps due to the early hour, Dark seems much more relaxed than usual, despite my questions.

It’s frightening.

“No,” he answers my query. “He’s very different now than what he once was.”

“Is he better now?”

He looks at me. I’m not sure what he’s expecting to see, but he searches my face in his subtle, calculating way.

“Perhaps,” he says. Noncommittal again.

There was something else in my dream, wasn’t there? People… something about two people.

Before I can say anything, Dark eases me back down in the bed and tucks the covers around me. “Go back to sleep,” he purrs. “We have work in the morning, remember.”

I clutch his sleeve. “What if I dream again?” I whisper.

His fingers brush my hair from my face, and his cold lips press to my forehead.

“Then I’ll be right here,” he says.

My eyes close, and I sleep.

And as always, Mark is there.


	41. Interim: Part 6

Your name is Liam, and you are thirteen years old. Your aunt has just died.

Not the aunt that raised you, but her sister-in-law, Ellen. 

Ellen survived a terrifying bout of Typhoid Fever three years ago, but recovered enough to move in with you, your aunt, and your uncle. However, she remained sickly, and had to be cared for constantly.

Last Thursday, that care was no longer necessary.

Last Thursday, her son woke up an orphan.

You stand beside him as his mother is lowered into the earth, next to his father, her husband, who died years ago in The War.

For once, you don't look out of place in your dark clothing.

Everyone wears black on days like these.

On days like these, you have one little thing in common with the world.

You grip Mike's sleeve when everyone looks at him, expecting him to say something about his mother, or to her, or say a prayer, or something. You aren't really sure what is proper for something like this.

Mike's face is wet and his eyes are swollen and red. Grieving and desperate, he looks down into your calm, neutral face. Maybe he finds some sort of comfort in the alien distance of your dark eyes.

You provide the words, but he's the one who speaks. 

"I'll try to make you proud, Mother," he says, sounding both confident and terrified. "You and Dad both. I'll make you both proud."

That's all he says. That's all that needs to be said. The deed is done, family and friends offer their pats on the back and words of comfort and casseroles and offers of jobs and education. Mike takes it graciously, leaving their words and baskets at the front door to sit on your bedroom floor and bury his face in his arms. 

You sit cross-legged in front of him, a plate of cold cornbread sitting between you. Crumbs dust your black trousers, and you try to work your face into some sort of appropriate expression to this situation. You've offered food and what you can think of to say, but there really isn't anything to say.

He sniffs and looks up at you, and his fine eyebrows furrow. "Don't you start, too," he grumbles.

You shrug helplessly. At least he isn't expecting you to say the right thing. By now you've learned that a lot of situations have scripts, things that are generally acceptable to say and not get a horrible reaction to.

This situation has no script. Not for anyone involved.

You scoot to sit next to him, your backs against the fading gray wallpaper. 

Several minutes pass. You notice that the headboard of your bed needs refinishing again. You have a tendency to rub your palms against it when you're up late writing, and the finish is starting to wear off. You'll have to tell Damien.

Mike's voice is muffled by his arms. Your attention shifts, and his voice becomes clear after you ask him to repeat himself.

"Do you think you could bring her back?" he asks. His voice is low and monotone, barely even a question, really.

You think about it. Once you're older, you'll realize just how much you're about to dodge a bullet here. "I don't think so," you say. "Animals are important, but they're a lot more predictable than people, so bringing one of those back doesn't make as much of a difference. I think bringing a person back to life would mess things up a lot."

"It wouldn't mess as much up as dying does," he mumbles.

You're sad, you really are, but your face has trouble showing that sometimes. So you try to use your words instead. "I'm really sorry, Mike. But would you really want your mom to suffer more than she already did?"

He looks at you with watery, despairing blue eyes. Then he sighs, and turns his forehead back to his arms. "Was worth a shot, anyway..."

It's been a year since you brought that baby bird back to life. You still aren't really sure how you did it, but that night, your whole family— including yourself— woke up from nightmares way more horrible than usual with nosebleeds and foggy heads. 

Mike was the only one to witness your deed, and he made you promise to never do it again. You agreed wholeheartedly. The whole ordeal made you sick to your stomach.

Now he asks you to bring his mom back. It's strange how people's priorities change when they have a personal stake.

At least he didn't insist on it. He wasn't that sort of guy, even at his most desperate point.

You reach out, a little clumsily, and squeeze his shoulder in a rough approximation of how he likes to comfort you. "This is your home," you say, although you're not sure why. "And we're your family."

Mike chuckles, albeit hollowly, but with some semblance of warmth, and reaches up to pat your hand in thanks.

You wonder what the two of you look like. Surely, you couldn't look more different. Mike, with his tall and athletic frame, curly orange hair, pale and freckled skin, and warm silvery-gray eyes that were always mere moments from twinkling, compared to you, small and bony with a frightful mop of jet black hair, ashen russet skin, and dark empty eyes with the tired bags underneath to match.

You're so different. Yet, from the beginning, he's always treated you as a little brother, now that you think of it. From the moment you were introduced he's looked out for you, defended you from bullies, encouraged your hobbies and at the same time coaxed you out of your shell. He boasts at being the first person in the family to make you laugh. That honor goes to your Uncle Abe, in reality, but both you and Abe silently agreed to go along with it.

No, you decide. You and Mike aren't nearly different enough to not be brothers. It doesn't matter that you don't have a drop of blood shared between you. Why, your own father disowned his brother, so blood really must not have anything to do with it.

You're brothers because that's what you've decided.

And that's good enough for you.


	42. Interim: Part 7

Your name is Liam, and you are fifteen years old.

You are sitting in the passenger seat of your uncle Abe's cruiser, doing your very best not to look at him.

"Thanks," you mumble.

He glances at you with concern. You don't see him do it, but you know anyway. You seem to know a lot of things that other people don't.

Like how he's currently wondering if there's parents he needs to call, or a youngin' he needs to give a stern talking-to.

You quickly explain before he can come up with his own conclusions. "Nobody hurt me," you say. "Not this time." 

His frown hardens, the crease between his eyebrows deepening. Now he’s remembering the last time you’d called him to pick you up from a gathering— you were crying, and your tears were the only thing that kept him from breaking your school’s linebacker’s door down.

That had been a month ago.

"So what happened, kid?" Abe asks, like you knew he would.

You chew your lip. "Um. You know Daisy?"

"Your girlfriend? It was her sister's party, right?"

_ Possibly ex-girlfriend, now.  _ "Yeah. She uh, she… well, she tried…"

His glance is sharp and concerned, and you quickly backtrack. "I didn't— she didn't force herself on me or anything! She asked first, but… she  _ kissed _ me."

Abe's eyebrows rise, and his instinct is to grin and congratulate you, but the circumstances and your distraught expression gives him pause. "And that's… bad?"

You squirm, staring out the window. "I dunno, I… maybe I did it wrong…? But I didn't… I didn't  _ like  _ it."

Abe says nothing.  _ I'll take him back to the office, let him stay out of the house a bit longer,  _ he's thinking. 

"Thanks," you say, and he gives you a startled look. He then shakes his head with a short chuckle.

"Don't think I'll ever get used to you reading my mind, kid," he says.

"I'm not reading your mind."  _ Just the text. _

"Sure, sure." He makes a left turn, and glances back at you. "So Daisy kissed you, you kissed her back, and… you didn't like it?"

You shrink back again. "Yeah. It just felt… weird. Kind of uncomfortable."

"First kisses can be weird sometimes."

"I know, that's what Mike says, but… I don't want to do it again. The thought of kissing Daisy again makes me…"  _ Makes me want to hurl.  _ "I just don't want to." You rake your long, dark hair out of your face frustratedly. "But I really like her! I like going on dates with her and talking to her and even hugging her sometimes. What's wrong with me?"

Abe gives you a sidelong glance. He cares about your distress, but he's not overly worried. That quells your anxiety somewhat. "Hm. You think maybe you just don't like girls?"

You hunch a shoulder. "I mean, I thought I did. Daisy's really pretty and smart."

"What about that other nerdy kid, your chess buddy, uhh…"

"Paul?"

"That's the one. He’s pretty good-looking. Nice enough, and you’re close.”

You think about that. "Paul's really cool, but I don't think I'd ever wanna date him. Much less kiss him."

"A'right, so you don't like fellas either."

_ So I am weird,  _ you think. "I don't think so, but—"

"And there's nothin' wrong with that."

You pause. "...Huh?"

He raises his eyebrows at you. “You can’t imagine yourself kissing or uh, 'makin' it' with anybody, can you?”

Shame makes your face hot. “....Yeah. I… I don’t wanna do anything like that.”

The cruiser pulls into the parking spot in front of Abe's detective office. He puts the gear in park, then turns to face you. Your uncle is a strange man, with strange ways of showing how he thinks and feels, but you see nothing but earnestness as he grips your shoulder. 

"Listen, Liam," he says. "The whole world is gonna tell you that you gotta be a certain way, all your life. They're gonna try to dictate what you do, who you love,  _ how  _ you love, and who you become. Some of them're gonna mean well. Those are the people you try to educate, help them see your side. And some are bigots, racists, and nazis. You know what we do with bigots, racists, and nazis?"

You blink, trying to process what he's saying while also remembering what he's taught you over the years. "We break their noses?"

"That's right." He squeezes your shoulder and ruffles your hair. "So you don't like all that gushy icky stuff. Maybe you'll change your mind, maybe you won't. That's your business. There's not a single thing wrong with you, kid. Not a single thing."

Sudden tears prickle at your eyes. "Thanks," you croak. It's all you can think of to say.

The two of you step out of his cruiser and head to the door of his office. As he's unlocking the door, Abe says, "So what did Daisy say after the kiss?"

You freeze. "Um. I… I said I had to go to the bathroom. And… ran away before she could say anything. That's when I called you."

He gives you a stern look. "First thing you're doing is calling her and apologizing for running off. Kid probably thinks she's got bad breath or something. Or that she's a really bad kisser."

You blush. "Do I have to...tell her why I left?"

He ushers you into his office and towards the phone. "That's up to you, kid. But I'll tell ya, telling the truth is gonna do you a heck of a lot more favors than lying. Take it from someone who learned the hard way."

The receiver is heavy in your hand. "...What if she breaks up with me?"

"Then that's her choice, innit?"

His eyes are firm, but compassionate in his own way. You nod slowly, and dial the number.

~~~

"...And then she said she doesn't mind at all! She likes to go on dates and hang out and talk and stuff! I mean I don't think we're gonna stay girlfriend and boyfriend for very long cuz she wants to get married and have kids someday but I don't mind that, I actually kind of feel good about the idea that she feels safe enough with me to stay until she feels ready for all that."

Your adopted brother (five years your senior), Mike, grins as you pace in front of his desk, gesturing as you chatter on about the day. You stop for breath, placing your palms on his desk, watching him finish putting files and folders into his briefcase. "... Hey, what's that?"

He's been absentmindedly turning an opened white envelope in his hand. He quickly stuffs it into his briefcase and closes it with a nervous chuckle. "Ah. Nothing. Just junk mail."

"You put junk mail in your briefcase."

He grabs you around the shoulders and ruffles your hair roughly. "Stop bein' nosy, Liam. You're too old for that now."

Despite his warning, you can't help it. It's too easy to tweak your knowledge of reality enough to give you a peek at what the envelope says.

_ Harvard University.  _ Of course. 

Your fingers go cold, even colder than usual.

Mike picks up his briefcase and gives you a little shake, his arm still around your shoulders. He knows what you did. "Hey. I'm still thinking about it, okay? I don't really fancy leaving home just yet."

"You could've gotten in when you were sixteen," you say numbly. You'd eavesdropped in that conversation. You had been too relieved that he decided against going to really think about it harder.

"Eh. I'm still young."

"You're twenty. You could've been a professor by now."

"Oh, come on." He leads you out of the room and the two of you head down the hall, toward Auntie Emma's office. "You don't know that."

You do, and you both know that you do.

"You should accept this time," you say before you realize it. But you know it's right.

His arm drops from your shoulders and you hear him stutter a bit. "I… I don't know. I like helping Auntie out around the firm. I feel like I'm making a difference."

"You would make even more of a difference if you went to college and got a degree," you say, the words tumbling out past your freezing lips. "You'd become a professor and teach the greatest minds of the century. You'd meet your first love and marry her, you'd have a daughter who would be just as brilliant as you and have even more of an impact, you would  _ change the world—" _

" _ You don't know that,  _ Liam."

You've only heard that tone of voice before once. Years ago, when he made you promise not to bring anyone or anything back from the dead again. Stern, almost cold. Not unkind, but deathly serious. You close your mouth, and he continues.

"Liam, I know you're trying to help. You think that I'm holding myself back, keeping myself here because of  _ you _ ."

Your voice is small. "Aren't you?"

"Partially. Like it or not, you need looking after, squirt. Or at least, you did. You seem to be doing pretty well for yourself now." He ruffles your hair, and you resist the urge to bat his hand away. "But no, I haven't been staying just because I want to keep an eye on you. I  _ like  _ working here." He looks at you, and his voice is firm. "And I  _ don't  _ appreciate you trying to force a future on me that might not happen."

You look down at your sneakers, and Mike continues. "You have abilities that I don't think even you fully understand. You know things most people don't know, you can… do things,  _ influence  _ things. Influence  _ reality _ . And I'm proud of you for being so careful about what you do. But… I just know you're gonna be tempted to use those abilities to change things, or undo them, because you want something, or you're afraid. And I don't want that for you. I don't want that for  _ me. _ "

He chuckles. It's a dry, humorless sound that makes your blood run cold. When he speaks again, it's quiet, almost to himself.

"It's terrifying, in a way, knowing that my little brother could control my entire reality and I wouldn't even know it. Maybe you already do."

_ I don't,  _ you want to cry, but you can't speak.

His hand is gentle on your shoulder. Reassuring. Warming your numb limbs.

"That's a lot on your shoulders," he says gently. "Just because you  _ can _ doesn't mean it's your responsibility to make everything okay."

_ Isn't it? _

"Just… let life happen, okay? Look out for yourself. You're a pretty smart guy, you can handle that."

You say nothing, for the two of you have arrived at Emma's office, where she's packing her own briefcase in preparation to return home. She looks up and smiles as you approach.

"Hello, boys. Ready to go home? Your uncle is making beef casserole."

"Sounds great, Auntie," Mike says, hugging her cheerfully. When they part, you hug her too, but you take a longer time to part. 

Emma and Mike's eyes meet over your head. She's frowning, and he shrugs, mouthing "tell you later". He knows you're aware of the exchange, but she doesn't. Not really.

She combs your hair into something reasonably presentable when you pull back, smiling down at you. You're only a few inches shorter than her (Mike towers over both of you), but Emma has a way of making you feel very small and safe. Even in her calm, often stern and practical way, she's been a better mom to you than you ever could have imagined.

Which is why you try to keep your peculiarities as much of a distance from her as you can. You want to preserve that relationship for as long as possible.

Mike sits in the passenger seat and you sit in the back seat of Emma's car, and as the three of you are driving down the road, Mike surprises you.

"Got another letter from Harvard," he says casually.

Emma's eyebrows arch and she glances at him. "Oh?"

He's not looking at either of you, leaning his elbow on the door of the car and toying with the short orange curls at the top of his head. "Yeah. I think… I'm kind of thinking of going in the fall."

It's February. Emma smiles. "That's wonderful, Mike! Damien would be thrilled, and so would I."

He chuckles a little bashfully. The leather seat complains under your clenched fingers. 

"Yeah," he says. "Would, uh… would you be okay at the firm? Since it’s still pretty new and all…”

"Of course, dear. Damien and I can pick up the slack, and there are some young folk we could bring on as interns." She glances in the rear-view mirror at you. "And of course, if Liam wanted to help out, he's welcome to."

That makes Mike laugh. "Well, I feel a lot better than I would otherwise, knowing that he'd be around to look after you two."

"Oh, pshaw. Your uncle and I can take care of ourselves just fine."

"I know," he says fondly. "But you shouldn't have to, just the same."

That makes her blush and laughingly scold him. You sit back against the seat, the feeling slowly returning to your fingers and toes, but still leaving you cold and listless.

So this is really happening.

You really will be losing Mike, for four years at least and likely even longer, especially if he decides to become a professor like you're sure he will. He'd be good at it, and it's what he wants to do. Even if he came back and taught here in town, he'd be different. Distant. Happy, but he would no longer have time for you. He wouldn't be there to calm your panic attacks or guide you through your increasingly volatile and dangerous abilities.

This is what you wanted, isn't it?

_ Isn't it? _


	43. Interim: Part 8

Your name is Liam, and you are sixteen years old.

You are angry, and becoming increasingly dangerous.

Mike has decided to stay in Boston over the summer. He said he might, and you knew he would, but rage still seethes in your veins.

For a while, Daisy is a comfort and a solace. You entertain her with your stories and poetry. She isn't disturbed by their subject matter— you often write of death and its inevitability— and often critiques them for you. She encourages you to see the beauty of death rather than wallow in its sorrow.

She makes flower crowns out of thistle and brown grass, setting them in your long dark hair like she's crowning a prince. Sometimes she'll braid your hair, and it's easy to fall asleep with your head in her lap and her fingers in your hair. She always smells like incense and something you can't naturally identify, but will eventually realize is the lingering haze of maruijana.

You aren't allowed to touch her beautiful, carefully-maintained afro, but on occasion she'll let you carefully thread a flower into it, or tie a scarf around her head in an elaborate bow.

She talks of peace and love, and you are enamored. Her quiet speech and easily-prompted smile quell the storm in your heart. You believe her, in her wildflowers and rock music and gentle hands and gentler words.

Daisy's parents are killed.

The  _ why  _ doesn't matter— the  _ why  _ never matters. What matters is they are dead and it is unfair, it is  _ wrong _ , and nobody seems to realize how  _ wrong  _ it is, even as your uncle is hired and investigates, trying to find the  _ why _ .

Emma works pro bono on their behalf. She and Abe work together, and they are ridiculed and frowned on and harassed. They take it with silence. They are determined and calm and kind and you are angry.

You are harassed for being her boyfriend, for defending her and protecting her. The insults and fists don't hurt you, but they would hurt her. So you stand.

You hold Daisy, sitting on the couch in your aunt and uncle's house. Her face and fists are in your shirt and you are the only one who has any way of understanding, because your parents abandoned you, too.

Her parents didn't abandon her. But you know why she feels that way.

It's unfair.

You are angry.

"I'll do it," you murmur. Her head lifts from your chest.

"What?"

"This is wrong. This shouldn't have happened. I can fix it."

She knows what you're talking about and she sits bolt upright, her knuckles pressing painfully into your ribs. "Liam, no."

"This shouldn't have happened," you murmur. "So it didn't."

**Daisy's parents are alive and well.**

Daisy looks at you with horror in her pretty brown eyes.

You move to hug her, but she shoves you away. Her mouth opens in a terrified, agonized scream.

**_She can't know what you've done. You were sloppy and impulsive. You didn't take enough into account, you didn't take anything into account. Her reality is unstable. Her mind and very existence will be torn apart._ **

**_Fix it._ **

Daisy's head is on your chest, and she lifts it with a concerned tent to her brow. "Li? What's wrong, hun?"

You check, frantically. You check for continuity and make minor adjustments.

There is no uproar. Any side-eyeing toward your relationship is manageable. Emma and Damien are supportive and kind toward Daisy and her parents, and Abe is as eccentric and stubborn as usual.

There is peace.

You look down at your girlfriend, and smile despite your racing heart and the roll of your stomach. "Nothing," you lie through your teeth.

She smiles back, plops her head back on your chest and goes back to reading the words on the back of the  _ Beatles  _ album she has in her hands.

You feel ill, and the weight of what you've done settles comfortably on your shoulders, as if it was always meant to be there and was just waiting for its chance.

Apologizing hoarsely, you shove Daisy off of you and run for the restroom.

The contents of your stomach are thick and inky, unlike any food you've ever eaten in your life. They stare up at you from the toilet, simultaneously mocking you and reminding you of the ugly truth.

**_You have chosen poorly, and you will always choose poorly._ **

Mike's words are thrown back at you like crumpled paper from one of your many journals.

_ Just because you can doesn't mean it's your responsibility to make everything okay. _

You did it because you wanted to.

Because nobody else would.

Because you  _ could. _

Daisy is worried, calling for you from the other side of the door. You flush the toilet and scrub your hands and face, your chest constricting until you feel you can't breathe.

Panic attack. Of course. Fantastic timing.

You sit heavily on the floor, reaching out to tap four times on the door, signaling her.

After a moment, she understands.

Her hurried footsteps lead upstairs, and you sit with your knees to your forehead, clutching your skinny ankles, your breath coming fast and tight.

Through the fog, you hear the door open, and a familiar hand rests on your head.

Damien sits next to you on the bathroom floor, his hand smoothing back wayward strands of your long black hair.

"What happened?" he's asking. You know he's not talking to you.

"I don't know," Daisy answers from the doorway, clutching the doorframe. "He just… spaced out and I asked him what was wrong. He said it was nothing, but then he turned green and ran for the toilet."

"Hm." You don't usually feel nausea during panic attacks, but it's happened before. Damien's hand remains on your head, comforting and grounding.

A year ago it would be Mike in this position. It's taken Damien a bit to adjust, but he's dedicated. You feel tears well up in your eyes.

"Liam," he says gently, softly. He knows loud sounds can overwhelm you when you're like this. "Can you speak?"

You raise your head from your knees, nodding slightly.

"What happened?"

Your throat closes, and for a moment, you can't breathe at all.

Then you open your mouth.

"I was… I was thinking about Mike," you say thickly, swallowing the inky bile in your throat.

Damien's eyes are compassionate, and he gently pulls you into a hug, which you gladly accept.

**_So this is what you've chosen._ **

**_How long will you run, little domain?_ **

**_Is this the story you've decided to make yours?_ **

**_How long until you see that revisions are still merely copies of the original?_ **

**_You can never truly alter the narrative._ **

**_It will always come to find you, and you will be held accountable._ **

**_Enjoy your fairy-tale while you can._ **


	44. Interim: Glass

Your name is Liam, and you are sixteen-and-a-half.

Since rewriting the events of Daisy's parents' deaths, you haven't made such a drastic edit.

To be honest, it frightened you. You had no idea how complicated the process was— how easily the fabric of reality could unravel. How even a small detail could create enough gaps to weaken the structure of a story, enough to make it nearly collapse under its own weight.

You've wondered why journaling made so much sense to you. Why it seemed to be the only thing keeping you grounded as your strange life proceeded. That is, until you wrote in your journal the night that you rewrote reality.

You flipped back a page, as you often did, skimming the previous day's entry. 

_ Daisy's parents were murdered _ , were the words that greeted you.

You froze, blood running cold.

But you  _ changed _ that, you thought. You fixed it.

Evidently, your journals disagreed. Your journals  _ remembered _ .

One point of consistency— an anchor. Something that cannot change no matter how you alter the world around it. If it is written by your hand, it cannot be altered.

At least, this is your theory. You haven't conducted tests. You're afraid to.

You still remember the look on Daisy's face before you edited her memory to match reality— existential horror, the absolute cosmic pain of existing in a space that was not made for you. The feeling of being  _ off _ , like a triangle crammed into a rectangle slot. Technically you  _ fit _ — you can exist there, physically— but it feels like at any moment you could be crushed, or fall out of that slot and into the unknown, or be made to stretch into the space until the make of your being is torn apart. Constant pressure, a pinch between your eyes that never goes away. To someone like Daisy, the sensation was unbearable. It would have killed her.  _ Unmade  _ her. Along with everybody else.

The whispers in your dreams— the shadows that have lived under your bed and in your closet and in the darkest corner of each room since you could remember— have informed you that this pain that you've lived with since birth is a unique one. **_You are out of place,_** they've hissed. **_You belong with us._**

So you ran. From home to home, somehow surviving as a toddler and young child, leaving foster homes and orphanages, fleeing the darkness until you were found.

When Damien and Emma adopted you, you thought you could stop running. At that vulnerable age you suddenly gained two caring parents, a strong uncle, and a protective brother. It's over, you thought. You can stop running. They'll protect you from the darkness.

It isn't until now that you realize you brought the darkness with you.

It pursues you even still, even when you thought you could harness it, these dark suggestions and understandings that enable you to warp the narrative of your life to your will. 

You thought you mastered it, that by harnessing it to do a good deed you could beat back its influence. But the whispers only intensified. They praise you, encourage you, coax you, insisting that you  **_return, come back, we're waiting, don't you want to be whole?_ **

No. You're afraid. You don't want whatever they're suggesting. Time and time again, even at your darkest moments, you've been shown kindness and mercy and love.

That's not what the whispers want. They want something else, something evil and hateful. Underneath their honeyed praise and sweet-sounding suggestions, you can make out words like  **_revenge_ ** and  **_unfinished business_ ** _ ,  _ phrases that make you cold all over, words you didn't understand as a child but now you know with chilling familiarity. 

You don't want those things. You don't want to have anything to do with them.

Abe taught you about justice. Damien taught you about kindness. Emma taught you about integrity. Mike taught you about responsibility.

All of them taught you about love.

No matter what happens… even as you lie in bed and the world and its restrictions are crushing you alive, no matter how you feel the ache in your soul that something feels  _ missing, you don't belong here you've never belonged here  _ and no matter how you are tempted to reach out and step into that darkness… you remember how you have been loved, and how you love. 

You know you're the cause of the chronic nightmares and nosebleeds your whole family suffers. The ones that reportedly stopped for Mike when he moved away, the ones that the doctors can't explain and blame on dry spells and poor sleeping habits.

You are the common denominator. You can't explain how you know it besides hunches and too-many-coincidences, but you know.

The midnight and early morning cocoa routines after communal night terrors have become habitual. You're not sure that Emma and Damien even consider anything to be wrong at this point. They've had their own traumas; they assume those are the cause. You know better.

You want to stop hurting them but you are sixteen years old and you are afraid.

**_Have you forgotten how to run, little domain? It used to be second nature. Your instincts have gone sour._ **

Your journal flies into the corner of the room, splashing into the darkness with a flutter of well-worn pages. It bumps into a cloth-covered frame as it falls to the ground, disturbing the fabric and exposing a glint created by your bedside lamp.

Mirrors have always made you uneasy, so you keep them covered at night. The glint disturbs you.

You crawl out of bed and retrieve your journal— unharmed, except for a slightly crinkled corner. That's okay. It's been through worse.

You glance at the covered mirror. That sliver of glass you can see— it makes you anxious. During the day it's all right, but at night…

You reach out to adjust the cloth. All it needs is a small tug, and the mirror will be safely hidden once again.

However, your eyes haven't adjusted quite enough yet, and you overshoot, reaching too far in search of the fabric.

And your fingers pass right through the glass.


End file.
